


From Harrenhal, With Love

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya's POV, Consent Issues, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fantasizing, Hang on. No. That wasn't the plan., Hey. This is weird now. Why do you treat me like a human being to, I want to put a knife in your back, In later chapters - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pining, Power Imbalance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, and therefore:, though it's rather ..., to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Harrenhal wasn’t a safe place. It wasn’t safe for a young girl, for a girl from a rivaling noble house, disguised as a commoner even less. In fact, it wasn't safe for anyone. Whilst the Lord of Harrenhal drank sweet wine from an ornate cup, everyone else drank a far more bitter draught.The story of Arya Stark, now cupbearer to Lord Tywin in Harrenhal. A tale of innocence and intimidation, of little games, unwisely played.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched all Arya scenes before Season 8 and just had too many thoughts on their scenes together. I love the chemistry between them, their dynamics and in the following days I thought a lot about them. I had to get the possibilities of 'what if' out of my head after realizing that otherwise, my thoughts would never leave me. 
> 
> This was where it all started. In fact, all I wanted to do was to write a one-shot PWP over Easter to rid myself of the ideas in my head and fight the writer's block lasting a couple of months already. I wrote bits and pieces, in fact I wrote a shit-ton of words and in the process of writing the various scenes, I realized (for myself and this fic) that this PWP just wouldn't do them justice; wouldn't do the thoughts in my head justice. As said before: it's their chemistry together that got me here in the first place and that is something I absolutely wish to explore further. So yes, expect a lot of student/mentor-dynamics, awkward conversations and character studies before literally anything sexual will happen (I do have all the scenes for the PWP already; there'll be more. In time. After all, I'm not exactly known for writing G-rated fic) 
> 
> The fic is tagged "Consent Issues" for the obvious power imbalance/age difference between the main characters. Any sexual content that may take place in the later chapters of the story is consensual (as much as it can be, given the aforementioned and the fact that the entire situation somehow could be also interpreted as Stockholm Syndrom). 
> 
> **Some other information:** Arya's character is aged-up but still underage by our standards. She is older than Dany was when she married Khal Drogo. There's much happening in Westeros during the time the story takes place. However, as interesting as any of these events may be, the story is solely focused on Tywin&Arya (Tywin/Arya) and won't contain actual subplots. Of course, recent events will be mentioned from time to time.
> 
> Yes, I suck at titles a lot. I'm very sorry about this one as it sounds like ultimate crackfic and absolutely is not. But in my defense: at one point it'll make sense, I promise. I suck at summaries too.

**Prologue**

*

When Arya did not serve as cupbearer to her lord, she almost exclusively kept to herself. Her room was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a window so high above that almost no light fell ever into it. A filthy mattress and a few candles were all Arya possessed.

She didn’t mind. The room had a lock and she didn’t have to share it. That was all that mattered.

Harrenhal wasn’t a safe place. It wasn’t safe for a young girl. It wasn’t safe for a young boy either. In fact, Harrenhal and its surrounding villages weren’t a safe place for most. Whilst the lord of Harrenhal drank sweet wine from ornate cups well-guarded, almost everyone else drank a far more bitter draught.

_Theft._

_Rape._

_Torture and murder._

Tywin Lannister abhorred it, at least right when they happened right under his nose and out of base motives. Political matters were something else entirely and well tolerated by him. He had put an end to it as best as he could. Nevertheless, rape and torture still happened, now confined to the shadows of the night. Arya had no illusions about that. 

She sat on her mattress, cross-legged and blinked into the darkness. So far that was nothing out of the ordinary as she could never go back right to sleep after she was finished with her work. The nights were the only times she had to herself as Lord Tywin rose very early and she did well not to be late. Unreliability did not sit well with him at all.

When finally she was alone, she would reflect on the day and everything she had heard and observed. Then, she would repeat the names on her list until sleep overwhelmed her.

She usually was very tired. The days in her lord’s service were long, and more often than not emotionally challenging. He was at war with the brother he didn’t know she had.

Most of the time she was present when he discussed strategy and plans for upcoming battles. All plotting had one goal: to eliminate the young wolf. The tiniest look of surprise or hurt on her face, of the sort most man would not even notice, would give her identity away to him.

Lord Tywin had a habit of noticing everything, combined with the wits to draw the correct conclusions afterward.

It had happened before to her and it will happen again. She knew that and it made her nervous.

In silence, she thanked Syrio for his many lessons. It had been her dancing master who had begun to teach her how and even more importantly when and to whom to conceal her thoughts.

She has never stopped learning and as much as she hated complimenting Lord Tywin for it, she currently was learning from the best. It was mesmerizing to watch how he only gave away what he wished others to see whilst everything he truly felt remained hidden. She envied him for it.

 

Tonight, Arya’s mood was sour.

An errand of her lord to fetch some water has brought her into Harrenhal’s courtyard where she had run into Jaqen H’ghar, now dressed in gold and crimson red, the unmistakable colors of House Lannister. She couldn’t forget the encounter and the conversation that had followed.

 _‘You are one of them now!’_ She had spat.

His smile had been mild. _‘Just like you.’_

It wasn’t true.

She wouldn’t go to war for the house she now served. She had told him so.

_‘A man has changed. So has a girl. Ultimately, all men must serve. One way or another.’_

_‘Shut up.’_

_‘As a girl wishes. But a girl knows that silence makes a man’s words true no less. A man comprehends and accepts the way he has changed. A girl is lost.’_

He had inclined his head and smiled at her. Then, he had left. And Arya had stared after him.

At first, she had been bewildered, then furious.

_Why would he tell her?_

She knew that she looked less like a boy now, much to her own dismay. Her hair has been growing since her arrival at Harrenhal, she’s taller now and the curves of her body have begun to show. She was no longer as skinny as she had been and although she did her best to hide her breasts with binders, some other curves she could not hide so easily.

However, she felt as if that wasn’t what Jaqen H’ghar had meant.

_How did he know?_

_Or perhaps, he did not know anything at all? Perhaps he had only guessed and thereby tricked her into admission?_

She still was angry about the conversation. In fact, she was angrier now than she had been then. The anger was directed entirely at herself and her stupidity.

Not only had Jaqen H’ghar told her something she didn’t wish to hear at all but also had she almost forgotten the task that had brought her into the courtyard. After she had realized that the jug was still empty, she had cursed, then quickly filled it and hurried back inside.

Arya had hoped her lord would not notice the anger, which she hadn’t managed to fully conceal or – if he did, ignore her.

She knew he never would.

When she had entered the room he stood at the table, his hands gripping the edge of it. _‘To fetch that water took you long enough. Fresh from the Gods Eye, I take it?’_

She had lowered her gaze to the floor. _‘Apologies, my lord.’_

She had meant it.

 _‘Sit.’_ He had gestured to the seat.

Arya had lifted her gaze but remained standing, clenching her jaw.

 _‘Girl, that wasn’t a question,’_ he had told her in that icy voice of his, taking a seat himself. _‘Sit.’_

She had obeyed him, expecting but not anticipating the scolding for her delay.

 _‘You are angry.’_ Lord Tywin’s remark had taken her off guard.

Arya had nodded, forcing her fingers into stillness beneath the table.

Her attempt to master any signs of nervousness had seemed to amuse him. _‘Anger, precisely calculated and directed towards your opponent has often proved to be a valuable trait. Blind anger, undirected and open as I see it on your face is nothing more than weakness. What did it cause, I wonder, sentiments like hurt pride?’_

Despite better knowledge, Arya had mumbled something under her breath.

 _‘I beg your pardon?’_ It was a warning, one Arya decided to ignore.

_‘It was nothing, my lord.’_

_‘Speak what is on your mind, girl.’_ He had leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms. _‘I will not repeat myself again.’_

_Family._

_Duty._

_Honor._

The words of her mother’s house.

 _‘Pride and honor are not idle sentiments,’_ she had told him, carefully choosing her words to sound as exchangeable as possible. _‘They matter where I come from.’_

Though Tywin Lannister lacked all honor in Arya’s eyes, she could not argue that he took family and duty very seriously. She had never known a man more devoted to duty than the Head of House Lannister.

 _‘Very well. At least you didn’t lie to me this time. I am still amused by how you tried to sell me that you were from Maidenpool._ _You are a Northerner through and through. Pride and honor … most noble traits, I won’t deny it. Yet prone to provoke rash and poor thought of actions. It is what gets you Northerners into trouble in the first place and often killed shortly after.’_

Memory and anger had almost made her speak words of treachery. _Almost._

Her rage had passed in silence.

_Calm as still water._

He had tested her again, as he did whenever he was in the mood for it. Much to Arya’s own surprise, she had come to enjoy these strange games her lord liked to play with her, yet at the same time, she had to admit that she was always nervous. She has already gotten much better at reading and interpreting the subtlest of change on his face in the past months but uncertainty remained. She still didn’t know how far she could push matters with Lord Tywin and where exactly his tolerance for her insolence would end. Of course, she has learned a couple of names and topics best to avoid – Tyrion, whores, and brothels; Joanna Lannister most of all. If she did not broach these topics he allowed her liberties in boldness she never even dared to imagine to go unpunished.

Nevertheless, he was a dangerous man.

She knew.

Everyone in Westeros knew.

And she did well to never forget that and remain cautious during their strange conversations.

She didn’t always manage. Sometimes, boldness won.

_Calm as still water._

Despite his piercing gaze, this time she had remained silent.  

Tywin Lannister never smiled. Yet to Arya it was as if the ghost of a smile played about his lips before had voiced her dismissal. _‘You may take your leave, girl.’_

In that strange world of his, dismissing her was a reward for not giving in to her emotions in front of him.

She had stood and acknowledged it with a nod of courtesy. Only when she had been out of sight, she had smirked – just as she did now, the anger finally leaving her.

Instead, she thought about her time at Harrenhal. Arya hated Lord Tywin for the simple reason that he was a Lannister yet at the same time she could not deny that his demeanor ultimately fascinated her.

She feared him, and then, she did not. Until once again she overstepped his boundaries and he told her to get out in that stern voice of his.

He challenged her – and each time she accepted.

She lost. Only to try again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's build Arya's world before the real fun starts.
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, subscribing & leaving kudos. It means so much <3

**Chapter 02**

A couple of months earlier

*

Harrenhal was a hostile place, a wasteland bereft of beauty and light.

The air stank of piss and feces; of coagulated blood and dried sweat, hard to stomach, even for her. Arya had begun to rub a bit of herbal oil on the skin beneath her nose as soon as somebody told her that little trick. Otherwise, she learned to ignore it.

Becoming Lord Tywin’s cupbearer meant that she lived in Harrenhal now – she would never call it home. Home, that was the North, her family and Old Nan’s stories of giants and White walkers; the burning fire in Winterfell’s hall, and the smell of hot mead.

In order to distract herself from the misery her life has become Arya often thought about Harrenhal’s history. She imagined how dust and ash had rained from the bleak sky after the dragons came, how the flames had raced through the streets and left only poisonous fumes behind. Even now, the darkness of the stones spoke of it. Apart from the tales of old and her memories, there was little else Arya could draw comfort from. Whenever she was alone, she recalled the stories of Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen, the sisters who were allowed to wield named swords and rode their dragons into battle. The sisters whose opinions mattered in a world of men.

Sometimes, she closed her eyes and imagined the Targaryen sisters flying over Harrenhal on the back of their dragons, Meraxes and Vhagar, whilst she stood on the ground, looking up into the sky in wonder. She hoped they would burn it down to the ground.

Apart from stinking abominably, Harrenhal was cold at night.

Whenever Arya woke at night she shook from the cold. The castle has never been properly rebuilt after its destruction. Instead of windows, the cut-outs in the walls were simply left open. She was surprised that even Lord Tywin’s quarters did not have proper windows but then, Harrenhal has never been meant as a permanent residence for the Warden of the West. It was a temporary nuisance caused by Robb Stark’s victorious war.

*

Despite having never served anyone before, Arya was quick to adapt to her new life. From sunrise on, she poured wine with sweaty and sometimes shaky hands or cleaned the table with her eyes obediently directed to the floor. Just as easily she adjusted to the gloomy twilight of the room in which he held his councils, striking her as odd in the beginning. Although the fire always burnt to keep the cold outside the candles were never lit.

Arya was nervous in his presence, always alarmed.

He was a Lannister, the head of that wretched house and his reputation was infamous in the Seven Kingdoms.

_The Reynes and Tarbecks._

_Castamere._

_Lady Elia Martell’s death; the death of her children._

His crimes were too many to count.

When his attention had been fixed on her for the first time, Arya had nearly wet herself with fear.

She hated him, with all her heart.

He was a bloody Lannister – Cersei’s father.

Worse than that, he was Joffrey’s grandfather, so ultimately, his hands were stained by Lord Eddard’s blood.

And she was Arya Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter, afraid that Tywin Lannister would identify her for who she truly was.

Fear would never win over her.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Syrio’s words were hard to follow in Tywin Lannister’s presence. She was intimidated by him. Everyone in Harrenhal was one way or another. It took her two days in his service and a meeting with Ser Gregor Clegane to truly understand why.

“Set the Riverlands from the Gods Eyes to the Red Fork on fire,” he told Ser Gregor Clegane with such an aura of casual indifference that Arya felt the blood freeze in her veins. He hadn’t even blinked when he gave the order to burn the villages down as if it was nothing more than an order for food and wine.

A common saying said that Tywin Lannister never smiled. Arya had little doubt it was true. He had the icy demeanor of Old Nan’s White Walkers wafting about him; the same cold eyes.

Apart from simple intimidation, there was something else. Arya was afraid that her lord would notice the flash of malice in her eyes, the hatred towards him that kept her alive. From the first day in his service, she wished him dead.

_Quiet as a shadow._

He wasn’t on her list. Not that it meant anything. The boy in King’s Landing hadn’t been on her list and yet she had killed him.

Still, it wasn’t quite the same. She wished to put a knife into Lord Tywin’s back from the beginning and has fallen asleep with the fantasy ever since.

After his order to burn the Riverlands, she reconsidered. She would much prefer to slit his throat.

_The true seeing is the heart of it._

One day, her time would come but before she must learn.

All of a sudden, the sadness of her losses took hold of her. She missed Syrio. She missed her father. Mother. Jon, even Sansa. Anyone that would make her feel … home.

She wrestled against her memories as she stood in the shadows of the room, glad that Lord Tywin was occupied with something else.

It took her five days in his service until a knife from the kitchen disappeared in her boot. She’s been carrying it with her all the time, resulting in bloody ankles before she had made a small sheath for it from whatever fabric she could find.

Arya made it a habit to wake long before sunrise. Then, she would light a candle and dance through her small room, the kitchen knife in hand. At night she laid awake, imagining how she would kill him, watched the fantasy play out behind her closed eyelids. She wished she could do it with her bare hands.

With the first sunlight, she returned to his service, determined to observe and learn something new that would help her to bring her fantasy to life.

The days only differed in nuances. The guests Lord Tywin received were many and Arya was glad that it mostly was mostly knights and lords loyal to House Lannister, who would hardly recognize her. At least her secret was safe a little while longer, so she hoped.

She poured them wine and water, depending on her lord’s choice and cleaned the table afterward and with each passing day, her hands shook a little less. Whilst she stood aside in the corner of the room, awaiting another order she listened to their conversations. It mostly was about the Brotherhood without Banners and her brother’s war.

 _Robb._  It was hard to keep the emotions at bay when she heard his name being spat out by those who wanted him dead.

If Lord Tywin did not receive guests, he was either reading or writing. Arya has never met anyone who wrote as many letters as Lord Tywin did. It had surprised her in the beginning. There was a Maester at Harrenhal and, usually, the Maester was responsible for their lord’s correspondence. Her father had always kept it that way with Maester Luwin. It was the same at Riverrun. Not so Tywin Lannister. Arya presumed it was his arrogance that caused it.

*

She only realized that she had never been alone with her lord when on the tenth day in his service she suddenly was. The guard inside the room was gone, which only left two Lannister men outside guarding the door. He’d never been around to protect her in the first place, so his absence shouldn’t bother her as much as it did. She was intimidated by the situation, resulting in her getting nervous again. He raised an eyebrow at her slightly when she almost spilled the wine she poured but otherwise made no comment. Nevertheless, Arya apologized out of simple fear.

_Stupid._

It was said that Tywin Lannister only trusted himself.

Arya could not resent him that. There were many who wanted his head on a spike.

*

After a fortnight he told her that he didn’t believe the lie she had served about Maidenpool.

 _‘I will not tolerate another lie from your mouth. Where are you from?’_  The words still rang in Arya’s ears whenever his eyes rested on her an uncomfortable moment too long.  

She was glad he never asked a name of her and deemed girl sufficient enough whenever he needed to address her.

Why should he care about her name?

She was nobody to him. A girl in his service, like so many others. Exchangeable, without a value. Arya Stark would be valuable to him, but her, a little serving girl? Definitely not.

A week later she thought about it again.

Seven hells, why should he care? It meant nothing to her. Arya grew angry with herself.

She noticed that over the cause of the past week the conversations of Lord with his lords and banner have changed. The topic was the war against the King in the North – and only that.

All of a sudden, Arya was attending Lannister war councils. More often than not she now served water than wine on her lord’s request and when she didn’t, she stood by in silence and clung to the lords' lips. Arya has always shown great interest in the art of war: fighting, strategic planning, history, although only very few had taken her interest ever serious. Jon and father, that was. Yet nothing that they have told her could compare to this. This wasn’t a game; wasn’t fantasy or a theoretic scenario of ‘what if’. This was – real, her dreams come alive in the most unlikely place.  She almost snorted by the irony.

For the first time since serving at Harrenhal, Arya’s trembling wasn’t caused by fear. Excitement, wild and burning, took hold of her and she was lucky that nobody noticed the shining in her eyes.

Arya listened closely. Sometimes, the suggestions of Lord Tywin’s banner men were just stupid, whilst occasionally they were outright madness. She had to bite her tongue.

Then, there were lies.

Some lies were smaller than others, nevertheless, they weren’t the truth. In the shadows of Tywin Lannister’s council room, Arya began to play a little game. She guessed if something the lords said was correct or not by their demeanor, by how they spoke. Any change in the cadence of their voices could hint at betrayal, every blink or idle rubbing of fingers. She witnessed twitching hands or ever so slightly shuffling feet; these were the more obvious ones, which she always managed to identify.

Lord Tywin was her teacher for the rest. He hated to be lied to as much as he hated whoring, she presumed.

It still amazed Arya that she had gotten away with her own without much trouble. Lord Tywin’s lords and banner men were not as lucky. If he deciphered the lie, he hardly ever cared to be discreet to call the liar out. That way, Arya managed to identify the far more subtle changes and by the end of the week, her rate of success has been rising to 9 out of 10.

Lord Tywin’s face remained completely impassive, even when Arya was absolutely certain that he knew he wasn’t being told the truth. Nevertheless, he politely let everyone finish whatever idiocy fell from their tongue. Afterward, he allowed the silence to drag on.

Arya studied him, equally fascinated and repulsed, then guessed what would happen next. By now she had figured out what subtle signs her lord showed just before his anger was precisely directed at the man responsible for the anger arising in the first place. The way the corners of his mouth twitched when he was bored by useless necessities and idle words; how mild fury looked in his eyes compared to ordinary anger.  One day, she would use it all against him.

*

Another day, Arya witnessed something else. Even when she entered his room in the morning, Lord Tywin looked exhausted, but not quite. The expression on his face was difficult for her to place at first, something akin to sadness and regret. Was he even capable of emotions that weren’t wrath and anger, Arya wondered.

He was. Later, she learned that it was about his son, Jaime. Despite reading the scrolls scattered on the table whenever she could, she hadn’t known that Jaime was Robb’s captive since the Battle in the Whispering Wood. Too many thoughts flushed her mind at once. She knew about the value of prisoners of war; it could end a war, or make it a thousand times worse.

That day, her lord did not receive any visitors apart from one of his sworn knights. He mostly kept to reading or wrote scroll after scroll in silence, which was only interrupted by the monotonous scratch of quill against parchment. Soon, Arya’s mind stopped registering the sound and she got lost in her own thoughts.

_Sansa is their captive._

_So was I._

Lord Tywin still thought that Arya Stark was in the capital, together with her sister. Why should Tywin Lannister doubt his daughter’s words? Arya has read Cersei’s lies spilled out on parchment already twice, gotten furious when automatically she had read the scroll in Cersei’s voice. She wasn’t in the capital, she was here.

For the first time, Arya truly regretted not having stayed in King’s Landing.

How could she be ransomed if she wasn’t there? Returned to mother, to Robb … home. It sounded like a dream, faint and distant and too good to be true. And quite unrealistic, given her situation.

Frustration and anger got the better of her.

 _Damn!_  She had to get words to Robb – perhaps Jaqen H’ghar could help her; Robb must know that she was alive before Tywin Lannister found out that she wasn’t in King’s Landing anymore; before he realized who she truly was –

Before he called his banner men to fight for Jaime’s freedom, his hatred spurned by something far stronger than ordinary war.

She had to flee

– or kill him.

Images of how she would do it with her knife flashed before her eyes, stronger and more violent than in all the nights before. Perhaps – she considered; he was so absent today, perhaps that could be her chance. The knife was there in her boot, she felt it rub against her skin, freshly sharpened.

Before Arya could spin her thoughts any further a cough forced her attention back to the present.  At some point, Lord Tywin must have had stopped writing his letters without her realizing it. Sheer panic dwelled inside of her and froze her into stillness

Arya was scared to death by the look Lord Tywin gave her across the distance. His jaw was set and he regarded her with that piercing stare of his as if he had caught a glimpse into her mind, her thoughts to murder him. Actually, she doubted that she’d been very discreet about it. He must have seen it. Her body forsook her and she began to tremble, certain that in any moment he would lunge at her.

As it was, he did not, which Arya frightened even more. His face was blank, perfectly concealed as she’s seen him so often do whilst deciphering his lords’ lies. He didn’t speak – the silence spoke for him.

Arya felt tears well up in her eyes and despite wishing to look to the ground, she forced herself to stare back, awaiting the blow.

It never came.

He blinked very deliberately, slowly, then looked down at his hands splayed against the table before he stared at her again.

 _“Get! Out!”_ His voice was like ice; his eyes like burning fury.

Arya fled the room without ever looking back.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the tendency that my chapters keep growing and growing until I decide it's too much for one chapter and split it. That is exactly what happened here, which means that Chapter03 is almost complete.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 03**

*

Arya fell over her own feet twice, landing face forward on the cold floor. There was no time for weakness; no time to whine or get angry with herself. She fell and scrambled back to her feet and ran through Harrenhal’s maze-like corridors until her breath and legs finally forsake her.

Far away from Lord Tywin’s quarters, Arya allowed, or rather had to allow herself a moment of rest. One of her arms was pressed against the wall to support her, her body bent over in exhaustion. She tried to catch her breath and failed, coughing loudly instead. Not even in King’s Landing had she been so scared for her life.

_What if anybody heard?_

Panic made gorge rise in her throat, acrid and bitter, and she almost retched the contents of her empty stomach onto the ground. A wave of disgust and agony ripped across her face when she swallowed the bile back down.

She must not tarry. She ran again, without ever turning back.

_He’ll hang you._

No. She corrected the words in her head.

 _He’ll have you hanged_.

She wouldn’t get away with her unconcealed glance of murder, executions were carried out for far lesser crimes these days. They would come for her with rattling iron, were close behind already, chasing her like a frightened fawn. The imagination of their cruel laughter echoed in her ears, far too real; she threw a glance across her shoulder to assure herself that she wasn’t being followed. She wasn’t – Arya was alone.

With shaking hands, she unlocked the door to her little room. The place has become her sanctuary over the course of time serving Lord Tywin; it was where she whispered her list night after night and imagined death after death; it was where she trained and dreamt of a better future. The room would not grant her any protection now. In fact, coming here was madness. It’ll become her grave. She wondered why she went there in the beginning – she didn’t even possess anything to pack.

Arya was cold, shivering, nevertheless, she was sweating at the same time; she was bleeding. Her hands and arms were scratched from falling on the rough floor; her wrists hurt a little, were perhaps even broken. She hadn’t had time to notice it before, did not quite notice it even now as sheer panic has numbed her body in a way she had never experienced before.

Yes, she remembered a different form of helpless numbness. The day when her father’s head had hit the ground, putting a sudden end to her childhood.

The nostalgia of warm embraces from her father crashed down on Arya with such brutal force that she sank to her knees, her face buried in her hands. Finally, she allowed herself to cry and soon blackness began to encroach on her vision, caused by the lack of oxygen. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, shaking and sobbing and gasping, struggling and fighting not to curl herself into a ball and surrender to her fate.

She could not linger, must not. Ultimately, she had to get away from the wretched place.

 _He’ll have you hanged_. Arya slapped herself into the face twice, then rose, pressing her back against the wall for support, panting.

One by one, she repeated the words in her mind.

– _have_

       – _you_

             – _hanged._

There was no honesty in it. She knew who carried out the vile crimes that served Lord Tywin’s purposes and schemes; how he commanded his vassals like puppets on a string. His fingers were those of a scholar, not a brute, and she caught herself wishing it wasn’t like this. She got angry with herself. Why in the Seven Hells did she think about such nonsense now?  She shouldn’t have paid any attention to his fingers in the first place, she never even realized she had until now.

With the words, the soldiers’ laughter mingled and with it the endless screams of those tortured by Vargo Hoat, a master of dreadful cruelty, and the roaring thunder outside. Arya’s body shook and trembled; she retched sour bile and spat it out, then shook again like a leaf in the wind.

She had to leave but she had to calm down first. She listened to the sound of tapping rain against the walls; to the frantic beating of her heart, loud in her ears.

 _“Joffrey ... Cersei... Dunsen … Polliver … The Tickler … Ser Armory Lorch,”_  Arya began to mumble, tasting the salt of her own tears on her tongue.  _“Meryn Trant ...Ser Ilyn Payne ... The Mountain ... The Hound”_

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

 ** _“Tywin Lannister,”_**  she spat.

_“Joffrey ... Cersei... Dunsen … Polliver … The Tickler … Ser Armory Lorch … Tywin Lannister ... Meryn Trant ... Ser Ilyn Payne ... The Mountain ... The Hound”_

Saying the names, one by one, finally calmed her down. Each one deserved death more than she ever could, Arya thought – yet what would come from such idle musings? Her life was at risk if she only tarried a little longer.

She stepped out into the night. Icy winds raced through the narrow streets and the rain clashed right into Arya’s face, soaking her clothes within moments, whilst lightning arched across the sky. Not that she cared in any way.

_Calm as still water._

She struggled to head Syrio’s advice. Dangers lurked everywhere in Harrenhal, especially at night. Each corner seemed to hold mystery and death; another threat to her life and yet at the same time it cloaked her in darkness, offering protection from prying eyes. Nobody of the few who were busy on the streets took notice of her, their minds being elsewhere just like her own.

Arya came to the outer wall of the castle ruins and began to climb it, being reminded of Bran all of a sudden. The stone crumbled between her fingers and she almost fell. A curse slipped past her lips, then she tried another brick, which held her weight. The sight of the black spikes of Harrenhal’s ruins against the suddenly illuminated sky made her shudder but she didn’t allow herself to get distracted. She was there, almost. The call of freedom rang loudly in her ear.

“Eeeeh, boy,” someone called from below. Arya knew that voice. “BOY!” It was louder this time and she tried to climb faster, out of reach. Then she felt how a rough hand gripped her by the leg, plucking her down from the wall with ease. All her hopes and dreams to get away from the wretched place were crushed the moment her back hit the dusty floor.

_Ser Armory Lorch!_

He towered over her, stinking of wine and sex. It left little doubt from where he came.  

She stared at him and he stared back at her until she saw recognition in his eyes. “Tywin’s little cupbearer. Who’d have thought?” He yanked her upwards by her tunic, arms tightening around her. “Never understood what he found in you little Northern cunt in the first place.”

Arya recognized the comment for what it was, knew suggestiveness when she heard it.

She spat right into his face, then kicked against him and tried to bite the arm that held her to his stinking body, to struggle free one way or another but despite his drunkenness, his grip on her was like steel. She couldn’t get away from him, couldn’t get to her knife. Tears filled her eyes again; her chances to get away were close to non-existent. Nevertheless, she screamed and fought him desperately, her nails digging into his skin whenever she got the chance to. His neck, his face, it didn’t matter.

“Wolf bitch,” she heard him say.

She spat again.

She did everything to make the task for him as miserable as possible. That way it took them forever to get back to Harrenhal’s main part, and slowly dawn began to announce the new day. The ruins came back to life again.

In the safety of Harrenhal’s guarded courtyard, he loosened the grip on her for just a second. Being surrounded by Lannister soldiers must have lulled him into false security. It was her chance, the only one she’d ever get before her life was ended one way or another. She kicked her knee into her captor’s belly and bit his hand again, taken aback for a second when her feet indeed hit the ground. Arya took immediate advantage of her small size and the swiftness that came with it. She bustled through the crowds of soldiers with their crimson cloaks, searching every fire for Jaqen H’ghar; he was her only hope to save her.

Arya almost cried of relief when she finally found him. “Ser Armory Lorch. Be quick about it!”

“A girl has decided then?” he asked her in that stoic calm voice of his.

“I’ve got no time for your games now,” she yelled at him, each word filled with fear and frustration. “It’s Ser Armory Lorch. Do it”

And then she was gone from the courtyard, hurrying towards the baths at the far end of the ruins. To most men, she still looked like a ragged boy so she went directly into the barracks where soldiers, stable boys, and other common folk readied themselves for the day. The room was packed, shielding her from those who searched for her. Just as she had thought it would be, nobody paid her any notice and went on about his business instead.

_A wolf among lions._

What irony. She scrubbed her hands violently to get rid of Ser Armory Lorch’s blood, now dried and shining black under her fingernails. Then Arya washed her face and hair to remove any trace and evidence of the fateful encounter, praying to the gods that Jaqen H’ghar would grant the wish to her.

She couldn’t attempt to flee again, not during bright daylight at least; she couldn’t hide forever. An hour later she came back into her lord’s service, a somewhat refreshed puddle of crusted tears and broken hope. She was late but Lord Tywin didn’t register her at all. Ser Armory Lorch lay dead at his feet.

Tywin Lannister was furious. Really furious, and every fiber of his body spoke of it. For once his calm demeanor has given way to something far more threatening. He paced the room back and force, his left hand twitching behind his back, then came to a sudden halt at the head of the table where he usually sat. Then, he gripped the edge of it until his knuckles shone white. “Robb Stark still has my son and a trusted knight is dead, assassinated in front of my very eye, in a courtyard bustling with soldiers! Why – and how?” he yelled in a fit of rage and hit the table with his flat hand. Arya jumped at the sound of it.

Raw strength, might and untamed power filled the air, frightening her even more in her emotionally unstable state of mind.

“This is madness. I will not tolerate savages within our own ranks, nor will I tolerate them in the lands I rule. Sow fear with your torches in each and every village so far spared by Ser Gregor. Let them wail like children or widowed wives; show no mercy! Enemies are often found in the most unlikely places, so be cautious. I want each and every one unwilling to cooperate see hanged! ”Lord Tywin went on, raging and cursing, and promised to have half the population put to the gallows.

Arya flinched. She had little doubt that he would keep true to his word.

“Have I made myself clear?”

His vassal nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Yes, he was furious, more than that if there was an exaggeration to being furious in the first place. Arya’s mouth twitched as she drew her eyebrows together, daring a closer look at his face. The creases on his forehead indicated his anger, as did the hand behind his back. Still, she wasn’t entirely convinced. No, it wasn’t fury alone what she observed. It was something ... far more personal. She gaped like a fish when it finally dawned on her. For the first time, she saw fear flashing in his eyes. Real fear. Something that nobody around him seemed to notice. Now, that Arya had caught a glimpse of it, she couldn’t unsee it for was it was – another disguise. He’s been covering himself in the disguise of blind anger in an attempt to conceal what he undoubtedly interpreted as weakness.

Lord Tywin saw Ser Armory Lorch death as a not so subtle threat towards his own life – and although she’d never seen it that way, perhaps he wasn’t wrong; Jaqen H’ghar still owed her another life.

 _No!_  It screamed inside Arya’s head. Lord Tywin’s death would be her own to take one day.

He eyed her for a second as if considering something, then dismissed her. "I have no use for your service today. Go," he told her, and so she did, feeling strangely proud from the way she had managed to decipher her lord’s way of thinking.

*

Arya was still tired when she came back into his service the following day. The endless screams of torture and death throughout the night had kept her awake. Lord Tywin’s mind was still filled with thoughts of anger and wrath, with the difference that it now was precisely directed, crystal clear and deadly calm: The Brotherhood without Banners.

 _And yet so wrong._  This time, Arya did not dare to smirk. Instead, she wondered when exactly he would confront her with the consequences of her unconcealed thoughts.

He wasn’t exactly known to let insolence slip.

Tywin Lannister did not forget

     – or ever forgave.

Yet Arya’s glance of murder was never brought up again. Day after day he deliberately remained silent on the matter – a few days, a week, even when Ser Armory Lorch’s death was nothing more than history, he never said anything at all.

It surprised and astonished her, and made her wonder; it frightened her to the core and yet at the same time she felt relieved though she wouldn’t be lulled easily into false security. There was no conclusion she could draw from his behavior around her, not decipher the greater scheme he certainly had in his mind. He was just as he’s ever been: cold and stoic, menacing at times when yet again his fury was sparked.

She wouldn’t be fooled, and yet slowly, her days around him returned to normal – serving food and wine, and cleaning the table afterward.

The nights, however, weren’t normal. Ser Armory Lorch was dead but his words kept lingering in the world of the living. They haunted Arya whenever she sought rest.

_Was it that?_

_Seven Hells, no!_

No matter how often she told herself that this thought in itself was bullshit – because that was exactly what it was, the knight’s suggestive comment kept coming back to her unbidden for too many nights to count.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, in the next chapter ... the real fun begins :)  
> Also: I AM FUCKING AFRAID OF TONIGHT. dfjkadjfla


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and leaving kudos on the last chapter  
>   
> So here we finally are .. Tywin & Arya together. Without spoiling anything .. it's one of my absolute favorite chapters so far. I just love them so much together though Tywin's motives may not be the purest ones. So I throw in a little warning for a strange way of emotional manipulation (mild though)  
>   
> I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Chapter 04**

*

After a month and a half, when Ser Armory Lorch’s remark finally has found rest with his corpse, Arya was careless with her words in front of Tywin Lannister for the first time.

The day in her lord’s service was uneventful. A Southern lord with quite a strange accent paid Lord Tywin a visit to speak of coin, taxes and beneficial trade. Arya listened but wasn’t overly excited doing so. The talk was outright boring so that she directed her mind to her dreamscape, imagining happier days in her life, long gone by. To Tywin Lannister however, the encounter seemed like a most welcoming diversion to planning war, which resulted in his mood to be was better than most days. Of course, he didn’t smile but the cadence of his voice was just as telling.

After dining with his guest, followed by a few words of farewell, he sent Arya down to the kitchen to fetch some fruits and nuts. She went and, after a quick chat with one of the cooks she returned, expecting to be dismissed shortly after. So it always went. Lord Tywin preferred to spend the late hours of the day in solitude, just as Arya herself.

She was torn out of her musings the moment one of his guards opened the door for her, looking into the quite familiar room with new uncertainty in her eyes.

Golden light now spilled into Lord Tywin’s council room, coming from a chamber next to it. Arya had noticed the door during her first day in his service but had stopped taking notice of it soon after. Why should she bother – it was always closed.

She decided to ignore her lord’s absence and set the plate down on the main table, quite uncertain if that was what she was supposed to do. Perhaps not. But then – simply stepping into a room into which she hadn’t been invited did not seem like the proper thing to do. Especially not if the room belonged to Tywin Lannister. Arya wrinkled her nose in confusion, watching particles of dust dance in the cone of light.

“Are you rooted to the ground, girl?”

Arya sighed inwardly. He must have heard the footsteps.

 _Alas._  She didn’t grace him with an answer.

Until now, she has only served him in the hall where he received his counselors and banner men. Arya would much prefer it to remain it like this, yet in her new life as lowborn servant, a girl’s wish mattered even less than it ever had before.

Lord Tywin’s command had been clear enough and Arya knew well that disobedience did not sit well with him at all. Very little things did – if any at all.

She picked up the carafe of wine and the plate of fruit and walked towards the open door, hesitating to cross the doorstep. Arya felt as if she overstepped an invisible boundary by doing so, all the more when she drank in the sight of the room.

It was Lord Tywin’s personal study. The air was filled with the smell of molten wax, coming from golden bowls that stood on his desk with a candle underneath. They were beautifully crafted, telling about the incredible wealth of House Lannister.

The room was – personal.

Strangely intimate, a part of her lord’s life she so far had been no part of.

She didn’t like the change.

Her choices on the matter were quite limited and Arya finally stepped inside. She allowed her eyes to drift through the room as she walked towards the fireplace where her lord stood with his back directed towards her.

_I could –_

She took advantage of him not being able to see her and admired the intricate metalwork of the golden bowls before her gaze fell onto a pile of books. Books! She would love to read again. The books were stacked on one corner of the table, topped by a couple of unfolded scrolls. Everything was neatly arranged; she’d have been surprised if it were any different.

The books were the first thing Arya noticed.

The second one was the light.

In contrast to the other room the candles were lit, all of them, resulting in an entirely different atmosphere. Golden, almost warm and welcoming.

She liked that even less.

He was capable of pouring wine for himself, she has seen him doing so before though rarely enough but assumed he did so every night when she was gone.

So why did he ask it of her now, Arya wondered.

_Why today? Why at all?_

A demonstration of power?

He liked to do that, yes. Nobody in his presence was ever safe from it. Nevertheless, she doubted that he was doing it now. The way he held his body did not speak of it.

Because he _simply_  felt like it?

Absolutely impossible. Tywin Lannister just did not do anything out of base motives. His actions were well calculated, always – and never rushed. Each and every scenario was analyzed from every angle before, in the end, the decision was made.

_Duty. Family. Legacy. Benefits._

First, and foremost.

Well, now that Arya thought of it again under different circumstances, the instances that her own father had done anything that was not remotely connected to his duty had been rare. She’d been too young to understand back then, mistaking the call of duty for genuine interest.  

_I could –_

She could do no such thing.

Lord Tywin turned around to look at her, his eyebrows raised. Arya tensed, almost out of habit and forced her shoulders to relax immediately after. The steps she took were carefully measured; she walked slowly, deliberately just as she had observed her lord doing it from time to time.  She’s been studying that, too.

Her company?

Arya almost snorted. But then she heard Ser Armory Lorch’s words again, for the very first time in her lord’s presence. She wouldn’t even be able to decipher the emotion for what it was when she saw it, she realized with a start.

What would something akin to it look like on her lord’s face?

_No._

She refused her train of thoughts, disgusted by it.

 _Bullshit! Ridiculous Bullshit!_  

That wasn’t it, Arya decided, mostly for her own peace of mind.

A certain spark of unease took hold of her and the rhythm of her steps faltered, even more when she noticed the way Lord Tywin stared at her. He had such an unnerving habit of stating his disapproval by staring his opponent down.

_But why then?_

She didn’t manage to figure out his true motives. Apparently, he trusted her enough to allow her to serve him in his sacred privacy; be part of it in a very strange way. Out of all possibilities she had considered it made sense even less.

Tywin Lannister has not forgotten the incidence of her staring, she knew it as she knew the North. And yet there she was, standing in his personal study.

It made her feel strange, vulnerable.

“That took you long enough,” Lord Tywin muttered under his breath, sinking into one of the chairs by the fire. They were upholstered in red velvet with golden threats, looking far more comfortable than the wooden chairs in his council room.

She sat down the plate of fruit on the small table next to him, then poured him a glass of wine, catching a glimpse of his face. The sharp edges were almost gone, softened by the golden light radiating from the flames. There was a strange calm about him sitting there, almost peacefully.

Arya took a step back, confused.

The harsh intonation of his words did not match his face. She shouldn’t allow her mind to be fooled. There was no gentleness to Tywin Lannister; no kindness.

Only when Arya was certain he only watched the flames and not her, she let her eyes drift through the room again, sparsely decorated but richer than most. She watched, mostly not to study her lord’s face whilst he spoke, or rather philosophized, mostly to himself.

“Yet of course, the one doing the favor is the firmer friend to us and in order to repay his kindness, we repay our debt since despite all cultivated refinement it never was a gift in the first place. Only a madman would assume so, fearless of the consequences caused by his stupidity. Madness has always been an ill adviser; such as assuming the right to rule was divine and only an ill-advised king would wear the spoils of war in anything else but jest.”

Arya squeezed her eyes together, feeling incredibly stupid. Although she only understood half of what he said, even less what he truly meant, she found that she enjoyed listening to his voice nonetheless.

Did Lord Tywin reflect on the Mad King’s reign, Arya wondered. After all, he had served as King Aerys’s Hand. She was familiar with the major events of the Mad King’s reign, and all the rumors revolving around it but she would love to hear her lord’s thoughts and first-hand memories on the events.

_No!_

Realization what she just had wished for hit Arya like a slap and she felt her stomach twist. No, she did not desire to spend more time than necessary in her lord’s presence by any means.

Her gaze found more books, then landed on a small table with a wooden board and a box on top of it. The way the board was carved reminded her of chess, the game she has been notoriously fond of all her life.

Arya’s curiosity was piqued in an instant and the word was out of her mouth before she even realized she wanted to say anything at all.

“What –“

Arya tensed, feeling her heartbeat quickening. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions or to interrupt the silence Tywin Lannister so much treasured.

Much to her surprise, Lord Tywin turned to face her, pressing his index fingers together just under his chin. “Yes?”

Arya’s lips have gone dry in the wake of her initial shock. She didn’t respond immediately, taken aback when for a brief moment their eyes met across the distance and she didn’t see disapproval in them.

“You wanted to ask me something,” he told her in a firm yet somewhat understanding voice, giving her leave to speak. “Go on.”

She expected many reactions – a scolding or another unsettling lecture of proper behavior in a lord’s presence; in the back of her mind perhaps even something worse, but certainly not being granted permission to speak.

She inhaled, then spoke. “What is this, my lord?” Arya asked, pointing with her hand towards the small table on which the board sat.

“A set of cyvasse.” His voice was flat. “Do you know the game?”

Arya shook her head. “It looks as if it were a chess-like game, sort of,” she said, then tilted her head a little, still looking at him. “Do you play sometimes?”

Lord Tywin regarded her with an expression she could not quite read, before he simply told her, “No.”

She should have left it at that. “Why not?”

Lord Tywin’s countenance was stoic but his gaze was forgiving. “Tell me, girl, with whom should I play in this forsaken place? With my cherished lords?”

The remark was quite sarcastic but he wasn’t angry, not with her at least. That surprised Arya, just as so many other things startled her tonight.

Usually, when angered Lord Tywin’s left hand would disappear behind his back as if to prevent it from shaking or he would grip the armrest of the chair when seated. Arya has seen it a few times and she’s been certain to see it just again.

It never happened. He wasn’t angry judging by the way his hands rested in his lap, by the way he regarded her. Reassurance has always emboldened Arya.

“I could learn, my lord?”

That was perhaps the most ridiculous suggestion she has made in a good while.

Lord Tywin eyed her for a moment, a strange expression in his eyes as if a shadow of days long gone by passed across his face. Then, he turned back to the fire to watch the flames.  

“You are too bold for your own good, girl,” he told her and Arya’s breath caught in her lungs before he added. “Go, you must be hungry. It’s late.”

She was dismissed for tonight. But it was nothing like the icy command to get out a couple of days ago; it almost was – understanding, friendly? But was it truly that?

“Thank you, my lord,” Arya said and left.

She wouldn’t find an answer to her question here, at least not tonight.

*

Lord Tywin’s words kept Arya thinking; the entire encounter did.

Arya knew about her boldness and he wasn’t the first to tell her so. Her boldness combined with her loose tongue has often into trouble many times before.

But why would he feel inclined to tell her so?

Why would he allow her to ask questions in the first place?

Arya’s mind was reeling. Whilst she hopped the stairs down towards the kitchen she thought about the conversation again: about the strange look on his face, the even cadence of his voice.

She wished to understand.

_Why?_

Everything Tywin Lannister did served a purpose, some greater scheme. What would be her purpose in that world of his?

None, unless –

Terror seized her.

       – Unless he had figured out her true identity at some point.

Arya thought harder. No, it wasn’t that.

There must be some memory connected to the game, she realized all of a sudden, something that had prevented him from lashing out at her boldness. A distant memory from the past, filled with fondness.

To whom was the memory connected to, Arya wondered. What allowed the shell of ice of Tywin Lannister to break, if only for a brief moment?

Perhaps, someday she could find out.

 _‘Know your enemy,’_ Syrio’s words flooded Arya’s mind. _‘Know their next move before they know it themselves.’_

Today, Arya has learned something new yet again.  

She has become like a sponge in Tywin Lannister’s presence, both unable and unwilling to stop.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about the cyvasse board and the timeline when cyvasse reached Westeros. I’m aware that it only became popular in the Seven Kingdoms right about that time (during Joffrey’s kingship) and therefore, the chances are very little that Tywin would know it, least alone be able to play. However, it’s been popular in the Free Cities long before … just if you were wondering (and yes, it’ll make an appearance later in the story again, that’s why I am writing this)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand: a glimpse into Tywin's mind

**Chapter 05**

_*_

_“The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.”_  
_― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince_

*

Tywin laced the fingers under his chin and stared into the fire.

Perhaps he should not have sent the girl away so soon. There had been something hopeful about the way she had spoken up in what he assumed to be genuine interest; something … quite endearing in the indecent way she had blurted to learn how to play cyvasse. He wasn’t known to fall for the charms of youth and innocence, yet there he was, his thoughts returning to the girl again.

Misguided pity had made him offer her a position as cupbearer in the first place. That was exactly what he’s been telling himself for weeks.

A girl, dressed as a boy, who had stood her ground against his savages, ready to defend those dear to her whilst long grown men cowered.

A rare sight.

An even rarer courage.

It had piqued his interest.

Her answer when he had asked her why she dressed as a boy had been a sharp and cunning one. It had been the spark to flame in Tywin’s mind, igniting true curiosity.

He had yet to be proven wrong about her cunning. The girl – what was her name even – was smart, smarter than most of the lot surrounding him. Lords, bannermen; squires, spies and scouts, most of them proving to be entirely useless in the war against Robb Stark – it still dragged on.

She was a welcoming diversion, of her very own kind.

The girl had something about her, something dark and sinister; something quite familiar and Tywin often wondered where it derived from. He could not place the familiarity, at least not yet.

That she wasn’t from Maidenpool he had figured out soon enough; that she could read not much later – he had yet to tell her that. As it was, he could not rid himself of the suspicion that she was not exactly lowborn; many things she did spoke against it but he had no final proof.

_Alas…_

One day, one way or another her loose tongue would betray her, of that Tywin had little doubt.

However, not even that suspicion had prevented him from crossing the line that separated lord and servant with the girl tonight.

There was a tense silence in Tywin’s mind.

Lulling the girl into false security in hope that curiosity got the better of her couldn’t be justified by any suspicion he harbored. 

The true motivation behind his action tonight was unclear.

He rubbed his chin and the strained silence in his head went on until his own voice scolded him.

_Incorrect._

_A lie._

He knew exactly why he had invited her into his private study but didn’t wish to acknowledge the true reason behind his actions.

It has been many years, decades even, when last he had allowed strange and simple curiosity to take hold of his mind.

The sentiment of an old man?

Hardly.

Tywin chided himself with a derisive snort. He would never allow himself such liberties.

Sentiment was pointless and vindictive. So was love.

Such shallow banalities had the habit to get into the way of ambitions; his own father had been the best example.

The late Lord Tytos had mocked and destroyed the name of House Lannister almost beyond reputation with his behavior, worthy of an imbecile. Madness and stupidity, caused by the foolish promise of love had governed his head whilst resting it between his harlot’s thighs.

Tywin’s hands clenched into fists.

The mere notion of his father’s mistress made Tywin feel sick. Lord Tytos was in good company, though: many men were of such simple minds, listening to immediate needs, ready to be deceived when the first chance presented itself.

The past had taught Tywin much. It had taken many years of hard labor to drag the family name out of the dirt, to polish it until it returned to shining glory. He would never allow having the name of House Lannister besmirched again, Tywin personally saw to that.

This was the reason why his tolerance for the whims and wishes of his children had always been low and was of late lower than ever.

In name, it was Joffrey who ruled in King’s Landing. But in everything he did, Cersei played a greater part. Tywin knew about his daughter’s greed for power and her inability to see any wrong in all her children, especially not in her firstborn son. It has been the boy king’s stupidity to remove Ned Stark’s head that had caused the war.

Tywin could hardly stomach Joffrey’s temper, nor Cersei’s tolerance for it.

He had sent Tyrion to King’s Landing, to bring his grandson and his daughter to heel, even though he doubted that Tyrion could fulfill the task appointed to him.

_Tyrion…_

He was almost certain that Tyrion had taken the whore to court against his explicit command; it would be only a matter of time until he held the final proof of it in his hands.

_Whores, and wine, and joyful merriment; an indiscrete world of tits and harlots._

_A drunken, lust-filled beast, waddling about the world to mock and bring shame to the family name._

Tyrion has always taken great delight in defying his father’s orders and make him uncomfortable with all his jests and jokes. In response, uncomfortable actions had to be carried out for the sake of honor from time to time. Tywin was at peace with the actions his son’s inappropriate behavior had commenced, hardly finding fault seeing the command carried out by others and making his own son part of the punishment.

_Jaime..._

Tywin sighed.

Jaime, educated and trained as the rightful heir to Casterly Rock forsook his ambitions, the chance to rise and shine above all others by cloaking himself in white and gold. Jaime was a bodyguard in shining armor, and only that. Yes, he had been covering himself in glory against Robb Stark, Tywin gave him that – until he was captured.

In the blink of an eye, Tywin’s world had changed.

The burden of Jaime’s loss sat heavily upon his shoulders, far more than he’d ever let shine through in public. Every nightfall the expanse of uncertainty swallowed him, wrapping its choking hands about his throat.

Tywin slept even less than he usually did, hardly more than three hours a night, sometimes not at all. The disgusting rumors spread by Stannis Baratheon saw to that.

The honor of his house was at stake, the world he has shaped for his children and children’s children – his legacy. Whilst the rumors of his children’s illicit relationship and the consequence thereof spread like wildfire through the Seven Kingdoms, Tywin was condemned to sit idle in the wretched ruins of Harrenhal when the world around him crumbled to ash.

He sipped from an empty cup, Tywin realized, quite angry.

With himself –

– his children’s folly,

             with those who promised ruin and red nightfall for his house and honor.

Bitterness gathered in his mouth and he refilled the cup to wash it down.

Indeed he should not have sent the girl away so soon. Then at least his mind would be occupied with something else to think about.

The girl was an intriguing mix of brilliance and insecurities.

Sometimes, her behavior reminded him of his sister’s inability to remain silent on matters that were none of her concern. On other times, she reminded him of himself when he had been just a boy. Perhaps, under different circumstances –

But that would mean –

Tywin nearly choked on his spit as for a second the word admiration flittered through his mind.

_Nonsense._

Yes, he was curious how far she could push him and where exactly his tolerance for her boldness would end. But he was far from admiring her.

She’s gotten away with many things so far.

But then, she wasn’t ignorant. Drew conclusions.

And, most importantly – she wasn’t his child.

The girl had nothing to do with the world he has been shaping for years and, her curiosity did not get into the way of the ambitions he had for his own flesh and blood.

 _Her curiosity_  … the words lingered in his mind.

None of Tywin’s own children had been granted such liberties as simple curiosity; not Jaime, not Cersei; Tyrion least of all. It was a matter of principle.

Tywin allowed his mind the pointless musings about the girl. Soon enough, the war would end and peace would reign for a while until another conflict arose. When he returned to King’s Landing their ways would part; he would not take her with him and soon memories of her would become a husk.

So why not indulge a little while longer in such idle games?

There was no harm in escaping the haze of bitterness and war for a few moments. Everyone did so, one way or another:

_Wine, and whores, and violence._

Tywin did not indulge in any of it.

Instead, he encouraged the girl the little escape she offered to allow him in return to get lost in the allusion of a world that wasn’t composed of death. Life was such a fleeting affair and only the Seven knew if in the end, he survived.

_A most decent excuse._

One Tywin could well live with.

Excuse translated to lie, and ‘her curiosity’ was very much his own.

In the gloomy light of the flames, he deliberately ignored both.

It intrigued him to find out when she could not meet his expectations, to learn what her intrinsic motivation was to behave in his presence the way she did.

He had caught a glimpse of her motivation once, venom in her eyes with flashes of bloodlust and murder –

And yet she lived, unharmed, unpunished.

_A little wolf in the lion’s den._

A smile began to play about Tywin’s lips upon the notion, an edge of knowledge and cruelty glinting at the corners of his mouth.

What would happen if he tricked her into intimidation?

What would it take?

He wished to know if recklessness would finally win over the obedient servant

 – and more importantly still: what would true intimidation look like upon her face.

Would her eyes fill and overflow, both with tears and emotions?

His own thoughts startled him. This game was hardly fair.

But were his thoughts truly cruel, ill intentions towards the girl rather than theoretical musings of a solemn mind?

Tywin knew the answer. The dividing line has long become a hazy blur.

The girl’s attempts to master her emotions was quite amusing, yet more amusing was when finally boldness gave way to her true emotions; when in her defiance she still forced herself to obey him.  

She might lack experience playing such games but there was a mindless courage to her, quite fascinating in its own way. And strange as it was the girl appeared to be equally curious as he was. Despite all of her anger and nervousness curiosity burned brightly in her eyes whenever Tywin allowed her to let shine it through. 

Then, he wondered what she was chasing after in her thoughts, young and full of purposes and desires. Youth was such a strange thing, Tywin thought, peering into the flames and sipping his wine, eyes open but unseeing.

She feared him, he knew.

To some extent at least.

Still, the girl was a fool. She never suspected that he looked down on his paperwork moments too long for the simple reason to see how she would react.

Whenever he challenged her – she accepted.

And whenever she did, he was curious if her reaction matched his expectation; if it didn’t, he burnt with a frustration of his own.

Tywin pressed his lips together, pondering with what challenges he could present her next, as he often did of late when he allowed his mind to reflect the day.

Action provoked reaction, the concept was as old as the world. But was the action in itself expedient, or contrarily rather poorly planned?

What would be the girl’s reaction if he confronted her with the knowledge that she could read, Tywin wondered – perhaps it was about time to let the remark finally slip.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...  
> writing from Tywin's perspective was quite an emotional ride for me, also re-reading certain parts of the books and thinking about the atrocities he's responsible for. I hope you enjoyed this update and I'm really really curious what y'all think of this chapter?
> 
> On a different note: I'm going to be off for holidays soon and I don't know if I'll manage to add the next chapter until then; it has so many different scenes in it! If there's no update for a while that's my apology for it. Nevertheless, I hope to see you still around for the next chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright … this story was put on hiatus for a good while. A couple of reasons were responsible for that but I have begun working at it again. Actually, I sit on almost 20k of bits and pieces of this story, which I hope to tame in the next few weeks. Hannukah sameach, merry xmas & happy holidays. I hope you are still around <3

**Chapter 06**

*

Arya hated the way her body transformed.

Before long, she wouldn’t be able to pass as a boy so easily – if at all.

_..disguised as a boy. Why?_

_Safer to travel, my lord._

The advantage was gone.

Men, often thrice her age already began to leer at her, or rather stare at her growing breasts.

Sometimes, the stares were accompanied by whistles in her direction, by filthy remarks that only added to the nuisance the stares were. It was only a matter of time until the evidence that she had become a woman was undeniable.

_Boy, girl, you are a sword, that is all._

So Syrio had told her. And so it was her own belief. In Arya’s idealistic world gender did not matter, should not matter (which it did, annoying her to no end). Every girl should be able to fight for what she believed was just, the way Visenya Targaryen once did.

More than ever she wished Syrio was there. To train her, to advise her, to speak with her on eye level.

Instead, she was surrounded by whoring fools, soldiers bored to death.  

She hated Harrenhal,

today more than ever.

She hated the stares she received, the pain of stretching skin that kept her from falling asleep.

She detested the way her breasts moved beneath her tunic whenever she hurried through Harrenhal’s dusty streets.

As a result, she’s been hiding in her room more than ever.  

Each night after she finally was released from Lord Tywin’s service, fury mingled with frustration. There was nothing she could do against the change. She could rage, rant, and cry until tears would come no more, it mattered little.

“That’s not me,” she whispered into the darkness.

Her body didn’t match her mind at all and her growing breasts only were the beginning of it. So she’d been told by her mother.

_Mother._

Arya missed her more than words could ever tell, fisting the rough-spun blanket to divert the sudden pain she felt. It was like a stab; like icy hands wrapping around her constricting throat, choking her breathless.

She’d been told so by Alice the kitchen maid as well, so rich in detail that Arya wanted to vomit. Alice saw Arya’s change as something to be embraced and celebrated. Arya had merely rolled her eyes at her and went about her business in Lord Tywin’s service. Being leered at was no reason to celebrate.

Before she had met Alice in the grand kitchen that fed Lord Tywin’s lords and warriors, Arya had thought of Sansa as the person being most different to herself. Now, if she thought about it again, it wasn’t true, only then she had been to blind (or ignorant) to see. Alice, despite being low born and already in her late thirties still dreamt of gallant princes and flowers woven into her hair. One day, the prince will come.

_Stupid._

Arya kept her mouth shut. Alice’s warmth, kindness, and her hearty laugh could chase the cold in those wretched ruins away, at least for a short while.

*

The lecherous stares got more by the day.

Arya was on her errand to fetch wood for Lord Tywin’s quarters. She was outside for no longer than five minutes when she passed by two Lannister men, their crimson cloaks glowing in the sunshine.

 _'The red cloaks cleverly hide the blood,'_ her father had once whispered.

The younger one was Robb’s age Arya guessed, whilst the other was at least five years his senior. Something about them made her wary, even before they opened their mouths.

Arya wasn’t mistaken.

“Eh, Oliver that one kinda looks just about ripe,” the older one commented.

“A bit young, eh?” The younger one said.

The older one shrugged his shoulders.

Both burst out laughing. “Aye, I’ve forgotten that you like em shy and young.”

She ignored them as best as she could, removing log after log from the large pile.

“Won’t argue about that.” More laughter followed.

The older one addressed Arya directly, sporting a smug grin. “Such nice young tits,” he told her, groping the air with his fingers. “Now, come on. Don’t be shy. Turn around and let me see your ass as well.”

Arya felt her tense.  

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

She forced herself to relax.

“Don’t worry, we’re nice,” the younger one told her.

Arya snorted loudly. “Fuck off.”

By now she knew a lie when she heard one. His eyes and posture screamed out his true intent, which didn’t speak of kindness.

Harrenhal was packed with the likes of them. Soldiers of lesser houses, young and ambitious, with a point to prove. They’ve come for bloodshed and war; for glory. They were driven by frantic eagerness edging dangerously close to desperation, willing to sacrifice their life for seconds of fame. War has not yet reached Harrenhal. Now hundreds were trapped inside the ruins at their lord’s command, bored to death, restlessness growing among them with each passing day.

There was no glory to be won in Harrenhal.

 _‘If soldiers lack discipline the fault lies with their commander,’_ Lord Tywin had once remarked.

But what if the commanders were also on a hunt for glory and now drank and whored the days away?

The older one took a step towards her.

Arya clenched her fists, expecting it to be necessary to defend herself shortly.

_Calm as still water._

She breathed in,

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

and exhaled.

_The man who fears losing has already lost._

“You!” Arya spun around towards the intervening sound, realizing that it wasn’t her he meant a second later. “You two, what are you doing here? Harassing wom– children?”

Shame broke across the soldiers’ faces.

The man was well in his fifties, clad in expensive armor from head to toe. It was not unlike the one Lord Tywin had worn the day he had arrived in Harrenhal Arya noticed. Even his face looked remotely familiar, especially the wrinkles around his eyes.

“No, Ser,” the Lannister men said in unison. “We just –“

“You just were observing, yes, yes.” The intonation was like Lord Tywin’s own.

 _Who is he?_ Arya wondered, keeping her eyes down to the ground.

_House Lannister._

_Tywin Lannister._

_Genna Lannister._

Arya’s mind was reeling.

Oliver’s hands were restless. “Ser Kevan, I was just standing by.”

_Ser Kevan._

She has heard the name from Lord Tywin before.

_Tywin Lannister. Genna Lannister. Kevan Lannister._

Lord Tywin’s own brother.

Arya didn’t dare to lift her head, realizing that it was the second time in which a lord of Lannister saved her from misery.

“And you truly think that standing by is a valorous deed?” Ser Kevan spat. “I don’t want to hear another word. Get back to your duty. Both of you.”

Then, for the first time, he looked at Arya. “And what are _you_ doing here?”

Despite her blood racing from before, she continued to pick up the logs she had put aside. Only when she was done she graced him with an answer. “Fetching firewood for Lord Tywin, Ser.”  

He inclined his head as if to question her answer. “I serve as Lord Tywin’s cupbearer since he has arrived in Harrenhal,” Arya elaborated. “Aside from that, I fetch firewood and water.”

The silence was tense.

“Then we have the same way. Come, girl, ” at last he said.  

Contrary to Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan Lannister did smile.

*

That night, Arya cried herself into a restless sleep.

            So she did all the nights that came after.

 _“Joffrey ... Cersei... Dunsen … Polliver … The Tickler”_  Arya tasted the salt of her own tears on her tongue.  _“Meryn Trant ...Ser Ilyn Payne ... The Mountain ... The Hound. Tywin Lannister.”_

She closed her eyes and repeated her list until an idea began to form in her mind, perhaps the best she ever had.

The next morning Arya rose earlier than usual. She went down to the barracks of the washerwomen, at the far end of the ruins where it was least dirty. At first, she had considered to simply steal a sheet off the clothesline but then decided against such folly.

The punishment for thieves was death and Arya had tested her luck more than once.

She drew in a deep breath and approached the woman.

“What do you want, girl?” The woman looked her up and down, then turned back towards her soapsuds.

Arya stood her ground. “An extra sheet. Lord Tywin’s demand.”

Lord Tywin’s reputation was present wherever she went. Immediate nervousness flittered across the woman’s face. She fetched a folded sheet out of the basket and handed it to Arya.

“Anything else, girl?” The question was beyond polite, caused by simple fear of the current lord of Harrenhal. Inwardly, Arya smiled despite not quite feeling it. For the first time, she had used Lord Tywin’s cruel reputation to get what she wanted. It was nothing to be proud of.

“No, that’s all,” Arya told her. “For today. My thanks.”

Then, she was gone.

The evening after she tested her luck again: needle and thread simply disappeared into her pocket.

For the first time in her life, Arya was grateful for Septa Mordane’s ruthless lessons.

Well, quite frankly it was for the first time that anything she had been taught by the Septa was of use. Never in her life, Arya would have thought that knowing how to stitch would come in handy. Arya closed her eyes and allowed herself to be embraced by the memory of Winterfell; inhaled the smell of burnt peat and heated mead that was only there in her mind; allowed herself to drown in Septa Mordane’s words, recalling every nuance of being scolded to humiliation.

True pain only came with time, Arya recalled. It had taken some moments for her brain to catch up and the laughter of the other girls already filled the room.

_Sansa._

_Jayne._

Arya missed them.

The concept of a lone wolf was a myth.

_Stupid._

            As if such sentiment would change anything.

Night has long fallen over Harrenhal. In a couple of hours, she had to be back in her Lord’s service, no matter if she had slept or not.

With certain haste she cut the bedsheet in lines of equal size with the knife she had stolen long ago, connecting the ends with clumsy stitches whilst swaying her upper body back and forth.

_“Tywin Lannister. Joffrey ... Cersei... Dunsen … Polliver … The Tickler. Meryn Trant ...Ser Ilyn Payne ... The Mountain ... The Hound. Tywin Lannister.”_

The list now started and ended with Tywin Lannister.

All her stiches were a mess, of the sort that Septa Mordane would immediately unravel.

But Septa Mordane wasn’t here and Arya was quite pleased with her work, despite her index finger being bloody.

No matter how hard she tore, the stitches did not come undone, presenting her with a long width of cloths, perfectly suited for her needs.

Arya discarded her dirty tunic quickly, ignoring the chill upon her skin. Then, she began to wrap the self-made bandage around her breasts several times, each time a bit tighter than before. Arya was grateful that there wasn’t much to hide – not yet, at least. If that were to stay so she couldn’t know, even though she hoped it would.

Yes, it was uncomfortable.

            Yes, it made it harder to breathe.

Most likely it was hot as hell, too.

But it shielded her

           – from unwanted attention and internalized frustration.

Arya smoothed her hands down her front. And then she smiled. Finally, her chest was flat again, resulting in a  giddiness that overtook her, a joy she had not felt for a long while.

*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for lots of Arya & Tywin interaction in the next chapter. Let the real slow burn begin ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) .


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 07**

*****

The stares Arya received have become less indeed.

For the first time in a while, she didn’t have to cry herself into sleep. Or would not find rest at all because racing thoughts kept her awake throughout the night. The result of it was striking: her senses were sharp, as if a veil was lifted from her sleep-depraved mind. Her constant headache was gone.

On her way to Lord Tywin’s quarters, Arya watched the sun peak through a narrow band just below thick black clouds, hanging in the sky as if to herald dark tidings. Arya wasn’t exactly known for her superstition but suddenly she became painfully aware that each dawn could well be her last.

*

Though Arya wasn’t late to work, Lord Tywin wasn’t alone.

Ser Kevan was in his presence, which took Arya by surprise. Usually, Lord Tywin preferred to spend the early hours of the day by himself, something she had quickly learned. During this time, he was reading and answering letters in serene solitude, preparing himself for what awaited him throughout the day.

It was a habit Arya wasn’t unfamiliar with – out of her siblings she’d always been the one to rose early, Jon aside. So it was often her roaming Winterfell’s torchlit corridors in search for an early breakfast, or her sitting by the fire reading her favorite books when everybody else still was abed.

Even in Lord Tywin’s presence the memory of Jon and Winterfell filled her with fondness.

 _Stop_.

Arya scolded herself. Thinking of them right below Lord Tywin’s nose tasted like a betrayal.

She forced her thoughts towards something else, something far less pleasant – her duty as Lord Tywin’s cupbearer at hand.

Even though her steps were carefully measured in order not to disturb them Arya couldn’t help to feel like an intruder.

They sat at the large table, deeply lost in conversation. For how long she didn’t know but the dark circles beneath her lord’s eyes spoke of hours rather than minutes. There was a strange familiarity between them, of a kind she’d never seen before in Tywin Lannister. That was the first thing Arya noticed besides the dark circles around his eyes. The second was the way Lord Tywin’s left hand tapped the armrest of his chair, hinting at a temper that was ill at best.

_Dark wings, dark words._

_Dark clouds, dark tidings._

Arya didn’t like it.

She grew nervous, a fact she liked even less.

Despite trying to master her body to stillness she fidgeted on the spot, shifting her weight.

“Fetch us some breakfast, will you?” Lord Tywin barked.

He did not even look up.

Arya nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

She left in a heartbeat.

Walking down the stairs to the kitchen she thought about the way the Lannister brothers had sat together. Although she had only caught a glimpse of their relationship so far, something about it was odd. The familiarity she thought to have seen could as well be only all too vivid imagination on her side. After all, they were siblings. She had known that before. Without that knowledge, she perhaps would have thought Ser Kevan to be just only another Lord of Lannister of which there were plenty. It was more than likely.

“Two breakfasts for Lord Tywin.” Arya hopped from one foot to the other. “Be quick about it.”

Alice raised her eyebrows suggestively. “ Two?”

Arya rolled her eyes whilst another kitchen girl happily joined in. “I wonder if his cock is made of gold.”

Laughter burst out around Arya. “Quickly, I said,” Arya hissed, worried that she might be gone too long.

She didn’t have time for such stupidity.

“I’m sorry.” Alice bit back the laughter. “But I’m sure she’d like some cock of gold.”

The kitchen girl shrugged. “Who wouldn’t?”

“A cock o’gold always stands,” Alice snickered.

Those who stood by snorted with laughter.

Arya snatched the tables out of Alice’s hand and was gone. Lord Tywin’s cock, be it made out of gold or not was the last thing Arya wanted to think of.

She passed the two guards at the entrance of Lord Tywin’s quarters and sat down the plates in front of her lord and his brother, then filled their cups with water. They appeared to be turned into stone, like the goblins of Old Nan’s tale, Arya thought as she withdrew.

Lord Tywin’s mood wasn’t bad – it was outright ill, his stare into the void menacing. “Any news from Riverrun?”

Ser Kevan shook his head, groaning. “The Stark host moved further South.”

Then silence fell again, tense and uncomfortable, only disrupted by the ugly sounds of chewing.

To Arya it was as if they did not wish to have even these five minutes ruined by the horrors of war, a silent agreement made long ago.

“How many?” Lord Tywin asked at last.

“Two hundred dead,” Ser Kevan explained, pushing his plate aside. “Many more wounded.”

Still chewing, Lord Tywin pushed his chair back, rising. He began to pace the room like a caged beast, his footsteps today speaking of uncertainty rather than of confidence until the melody of clicking boots was lost in the clash of rain and rumbling thunder.

The weather matched the mood inside, grim and dark, full of surprises. Arya didn’t like any of it.

“Clear that table, girl, and be quick about it,” Ser Kevan told her as if his brother could not be bothered with such trivialities in his current state of mind.

She did as she was told.

Their relationship was the strangest thing Arya has ever seen. Apart from respect and one-sided admiration, there was little else between them; no warmth, no affection, no smiles or jokes. Yes, it was times of war but nonetheless, it irked her. Their behavior was nothing Arya was used to; it was cold and professional and she wondered if it had always been like this. 

Whilst moving the dirty dishes about the room she thought of her own siblings, especially Jon. They’d been affectionate with each other, playful and teasing. Of course, they’ve had quarreled but after a few hours of sulking, they were the best of friends again. When she was certain that nobody paid her any attention she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, memorizing Jon; the safety his arms around her body brought, the beat of his heart against her chest. Each embrace spoke of warmth, each smile of kindness. Arya had to battle against the tears filling her eyes.

Then, she thought of her parents.

Arya’s relationship with them was also characterized by love. Perhaps, if she had not seen her mother interact with her siblings Arya would have thought relationships must become cold and distant during adulthood. It was not so. There was so much warmth in the way her mother embraced her little brother; such gentleness whenever she talked of her sister Lysa.

Lord Tywin’s pacing made her nervous, a feeling that not even the fondest memories could quench. She moved the dirty cups and tables to a little tray with shaking hands, wishing for the day to be over soon.

A knock on the door announced another visitor and Arya jumped at the sudden sound. It was two men clad in heavy armor, the crimson cloaks caked with blood and mud. It was then when Arya realized that something was gravely amiss.

She placed two more cups on the table and filled them with water at her lord’s command.

More guests came pouring into the room and only half of them Arya managed to recognize. Ser Addam Marbrand was one of them. He was one of Lord Tywin’s chief knights and therefore often found in his presence. She identified Ser Harys Swyft as well, incompetent fool that he was. How should she not? Swallowing her giggles with a certain effort she turned around to hide her face.

Ser Harys was constantly present in Harrenhal, his behavior infamous among the servants. The cooks always made certain to spit in his food so Arya had learned a while ago. Whenever she went down into the massive kitchens to grab some food for her lord, her ears were always open. That way she overheard much gossip – and worse truths.

Lord Leo of House Lefford and Lord Lewys Lydden were the last men Arya managed to put a name to. She had never been good at knights, lords, and titles, dreaming the time away whilst Septa Mordane taught her lessons. Sansa certainly knew them all. Not that their names and titles mattered much to Arya; in the end, they were all the same: Lannister monsters – Lord Tywin’s monster.

_How many monsters does he have?_

Arya has lost count long.

The seats around the grand table were already occupied yet still more men came pouring in until the otherwise spacious room in the Kingspyre Tower was packed with those having a say in the matters that turned the world. Arya would have much preferred scurrying out of their way and in a way she did, withdrawing back into the shadows.

_Dragons!_

_Dragonfire could put an immediate end to it._

Arya dared to hope beyond hope. Each brick in Harrenhal spoke of the wrath and ruin dragonfire brought, her imagination did the rest. Crimson cloaks burnt brightly whilst faces transformed into ugly grimaces.

Then, she thought about Syrio.

_Quiet as a shadow._

The knife in her boot seemed to pulse against her ankle.

_Fierce as a wolverine._

The silence was thick and tense, only interrupted by the monotonous click of Lord Tywin’s boots on the floor until all of a sudden he stopped his pacing. He took a couple of strides towards the table but didn’t sit down.

“So?” Lord Tywin’s glance wandered around the table, weighting, and measuring.

Arya saw Ser Harys flinch as if struck.

_Why?_

Has the gossip come to her lord’s attention, Arya wondered.

_Perhaps._

_Did Lord Tywin care?_

The answer was no.

“It is true about Robert’s brothers. Stannis and Renly haven taken up arms against us,” Ser Kevan said. “Both declare themselves kings.”

 _More kings than Harrenhal got rats,_ Arya thought. There were thousands of rats in the cellars, some small, some fat and ugly _._

She had to bite back a snort thinking immediately of Robert Baratheon.  

All eyes were fixed on Lord Tywin. The tension in the room was palpable

“So the rumors are true.”

Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms in everything but in name. Never had it been clearer than at this very moment to Arya.  

Ser Kevan directly addressed his brother. “They are. Jaime’s army is still scattered,” he informed them, unease visibly showing on his face. “And Robb Stark takes advantage of self-reliance and strategic mobility of his army as he marches south – and wins.”

Each time Arya heard of Robb being victorious against the Lannister armies her heart filled with pride and she fought against the urge to let the smile shine through.

Arya let her eyes wander. From Ser Harys towards Ser Kevan, then she looked at the two knights with their bloodies cloaks. This time, no lies were told and nothing hinted at betrayal, and Lord Tywin was well aware of it.

He stood at the head of the table, hands gripping its edge until his knuckles shone white.

“The boy is less green than I had hoped for.” A sigh, lids fallen shut for a second too long.

She has never seen it before in her lord.

“It’s a catastrophe. Perhaps we should sue for peace?” Ser Kevan asked.

Lord Tywin stared at his brother as if he was joking.

“I am told we still have his sisters,” Ser Harys stated. His cheeks were red and glistening, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. 

Arya’s breath caught in her throat.

 _‘No, you haven’t,’_ she wanted to tell them, scream at them.  _‘At least not safely in King’s Landing._ ’

She kept her silence.

Ser Leo shook his head. “The first order of business is ransoming Ser Jaime.”

“No truces. We can’t afford to look weak,” Ser Addam spoke firmly, slamming his fist on the table. “We should march on them at once.”

Within a heartbeat the entire conversation has become heated; excited murmurs and gasps of shock reached Arya’s ears, followed by scraps of conversation and angry shouts. She listened to all of it but her eyes were fixed on Tywin Lannister. She studied him, fascinated by the lack of subtility of his emotions. He didn’t even bother to conceal his fury.

The air was warm and choking, ripe with the stench of sweat and tension. It was a mystery to Arya how knights and lords seemed to be entirely blind - or ignorant to the tension building in Lord Tywin; the cold stare of death; the veil of silence but most of all the way he held his hands.

No one noticed, no one but her.  

Arya gave him a minute until the last remains of patience would vanish.

“First, we must return to Casterly Rock to raise – “ Ser Leo suggested.

Lord Tywin blinked very deliberately, slowly, then looked down at his hands before lifting his gaze again.

_A minute was too long._

She’s seen the sequence before – the day when he had screamed at her to get out after her glance of murder.

Arya’s tried to press herself closer against the wall.  

“They have my son!” Lord Tywin shouted and within the blink of an eye, the room went deadly silent. His voice was like a sword of ice, slicing the thick air; like winds of cold fury. “Get out, all of you.”

Arya supposed it wasn’t shocking how angry he was. The men’s faces told her otherwise, though they knew better than to complain. Without daring to take another sip from their cups they rose and made for the door, carefully avoiding to look Lord Tywin in the eye. 

_Casterly Rock._

The Rock was Lord Tywin’s home, Arya knew.

_Home._

_Winterfell._

_Did he think as fondly of Casterly Rock as she did of Winterfell?_

Out from the shadows, she dared a glance on his face.

Her mouth fell open before she could think better of it. Never before has Arya seen Lord Tywin’s exhaustion clearer than underneath the raging fury. 

With empty eyes he turned around and walked towards the window, watching men at practice in the yard as he loved to do. She wished Harren’s ghost would fling him down.

The war should have lasted a few weeks, an easy victory with little losses, followed by glorious celebrations. Drinking was equally popular here as it was in the North. It probably was everywhere.

It had been a lie.

The losses were many, the battles grave.

And the war dragged on.

Home had become the tents, the battlefield; the unrelenting sun and the pouring rain. Home has become Harrenhal.

Now, that she thought about it, she had never overheard anyone talking about home before in this wretched place. Not the servants, not the soldiers – not herself. They all kept memories of home closely guarded to their hearts as if a word would scatter the last remains to ever return home again.

She shuffled about the table, clearing it as fast as she could when all the last knights poured out of the room with dumbstruck faces. She didn’t want to be in Lord Tywin’s presence longer than absolutely necessary, today less than ever.

Having tired from watching soldiers train he was back at pacing the space between the table and the window.

_Click. Click. Click._

The sound itself sent a shiver down Arya’s spine, reminding her of the way Vargo Hoat loved to torture prisoners.

Arya tried her best to stay well out of her lord’s way whilst doing her duty.

_How many monsters does Lord Tywin have?_

And whilst Arya thought about all the monsters she already knew, she wondered if he had ever bloodied his own hands?

Arya was shocked by her sudden train of thoughts.

_Why?_

She knew. She bloody well knew the answer.

            And yet she was dissatisfied with it.

_Why?_

Puffed with pride and ideology as he was, she wondered when exactly he had begun to collect his monsters. There was no point in seeking an answer to her initial question, to the latter even less. Nevertheless, Arya did.

She jumped at Lord Tywin’s sudden voice. “Idiots. All of them. Incompetent fools,” he suddenly began raging, rather to himself.

Idiots came as close to swearing as Tywin Lannister would ever get. He was no friend of crude language and didn’t tolerate it well whenever it was used in his presence, choosing his own words always carefully and with a measure. He went towards the table and emptied his cup of wine at once, refilling it himself.

“Put an end to that,” he barked at Arya.

Arya narrowed her eyes in irritation. After all, she was only doing her duty.

“Apologies, my lord,” she mumbled, annoyed by the trembling of her fingers.

She left everything where it stood and rounded the table to make for the door, only realizing her grave mistake of rounding it on the wrong side when he blocked her way with his outstretched arm.

“I did not dismiss you,” Lord Tywin told her.

Arya froze, stopping dead in her tracks. At last, the day has come that her glance of murder was remembered, then when her lord’s temper was worse than ever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got inspired to make a graphic .. it's at the end of this chapter (actually, it's a gif edit but inserting gifs is fickle so I made a jpg out of it and added the link to tumblr).  
> And a huge thanks to the two people who helped me out with the first part of this chapter yesterday! Your help is much appreciated <3

* * *

*****

_Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception._

Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

*****

**Chapter 08**

*****

_‘I did not dismiss you.’_

The words rang in Arya’s ears. Heart racing, she shook her head like a scolded child. Cold sweat formed on the palms of her hands. 

_Breathe._

Panic rendered her immobile, and anyway, there was nowhere to go.

_Breathe!_

Eyes downcast, Arya’s gaze flickered towards the door. She wanted to leave; she had to get out from under Lord Tywin’s nose, from Harrenhal, yet his arm and words held her hostage.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

For the first time, Syrio’s words had forsaken her. They did not help to calm her down.

_BREATHE!_

That didn’t help, either.

Arya felt the familiar feverish flush on her face and tried to push the intensifying panic from her mind, wishing that it was just irrational fear that rendered her helpless.

Arya wished –

– and yet she knew it was a lie. 

Lions weren’t known to be gentle creatures, and nothing about Lord Tywin’s reputation was irrational; it had been carefully built over decades.

  _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_

_Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know._

The persisting silence, wretched and unbearable as it was, wrapped around Arya’s throat like chains.

The uncertainty was what truly scared her; the complete absence of a tangible threat. She could deal with a blow to her face, or with the verbal outburst she had expected days ago.

Yet nothing happened.

_‘What if he had deduced her lies?’_

_‘All of them.’_

_‘What if he knew?’_

A minute went by.

_In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws,_

_And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours._

Arya felt her pulse pounding in her throat, certain that it was loud enough for her lord to hear.

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere,_

_But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear._

_Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall and not a soul to hear._

The death of the red lion. Castamere had been put to the torch on Lord Tywin’s command.

Arya’s fingers drummed against her thighs, and suddenly, Lord Tywin held his hand perfectly still.

It startled her. The stillness of his left hand usually indicated that he wasn’t overly angry. But he was angry – wasn’t he?

_Perhaps it is the calm before the true storm …_

He was a Lannister, a proud lion with claws and fang.

He was a seasoned warrior, filled with cunning and power beyond Arya’s comprehension.

And she was a wolf in the lion’s den, cornered like a frightened fawn by the Golden Lion.

The silence dragged on, and suddenly Lord Tywin’s arm was gone.

Arya did not dare to move, not even to blink.

            She’d wait until he broke the silence.

*

“So,” Lord Tywin began.

She drew her eyebrows together, thinking. With his arm gone and her eyes still cast downwards, she was unable to catch a glimpse of his mood. Watching his emotions has become crucial to her and now, being robbed of it, Arya felt more lost than before.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya shifted on her feet, squaring her shoulders the way Syrio had taught her. She looked up.

“That took you long enough, girl.”

Arya fell back into a slumping posture, knowing it made her look small and feeble. In contrast, Lord Tywin stood tense as a bowstring. It spoke of confidence, making his power palpable, and the difference in rank and status between them all the more so. Arya felt bare without something to hide behind, exposed to his heavy stare.

“What are your thoughts on this?” The question came out of nowhere.

_Thoughts on what?_

Arya narrowed her eyes, coughing a few times before she could speak. “Pardon me, my lord?”

_A plot. A trick._

The stupid coughing had at least bought Arya some time. She tried hard to decipher what she saw on his face but panic has numbed her senses and she felt blind to what she saw.

Lord Tywin crossed his arms. “The question was clear enough. Your thoughts on the suggested madness of my cherished lords and bannermen?” he said, and when he did not receive an immediate reply from Arya, he gave the answer himself. “To return to Casterly Rock to raise the levies when my son is in the wolves’ fangs. To even waste a thought on that is madness – madness and stupidity.”

The words sounded harsh, but the anger has dissipated from Lord Tywin’s voice, giving Arya the chance to finally calm down.  She dared another glimpse on his face from the corner of her eyes. She had not misinterpreted her lord’s voice: fury had fully given way to exhaustion; acute concern had become deep anxiousness. 

_He looks older than he usually does._

Lord Tywin shook his head. “We have underestimated the Stark boy long enough.” The question for her seemed forgotten, drowned by his monologue. “He has a good mind for warfare; his men worship him.”

That sounded a lot like Robb. Arya’s eyes face lit up before she could conceal it, and when for a heartbeat her eyes met with Lord Tywin’s across the distance she immediately averted her gaze.

Open appreciation for Lord Tywin’s enemies was dangerous, brazen staring considered bad manners.

He knew it just as well as she did, and he raised his eyebrow.

Lord Tywin crossed his legs, hands folded in his lap. He watched Arya as if considering what to do next.  “Sit down and pour yourself a cup of water.”

The words were like a slap.

_No! He couldn’t mean it._

Arya pressed her arms against her body to prevent them from shaking.

His jaw tightening before he spoke. “Just like starring, it is bad manners to refuse a lord’s offer. _Sit. Down_.”

Tywin Lannister’s voice was used to give commands and Arya recognized the words exactly for what they were. It had never been a request in the first place. Who wished to be obeyed had to know how to command – it was as easy as that.

She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat before she sat down on the chair next to him, unease growing.  

“Better.”

After that, he didn’t say anything for a moment and it would have surprised Arya if he had. He just watched her. Considered, tapping his fingers against the table, and despite all unease, Arya watched him in return.

“You appear to be nervous.”

She was. “I – I – “ her voice almost forsake her. “I shouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Perhaps indeed you should not,” Lord Tywin mused, tilting his head so that he looked at the flames in the hearth instead of her. “And yet I told you to. Certainly, you wonder why?”

_Did I wonder?_

Arya wasn’t certain. “Yes.”

“The answer to your question is a rather simple one. _You_ at least seem to be genuinely interested in what I say,” he told her as a matter-of-fact, rubbing his chin. “– and write.”

Although his voice lacked the cold she was so familiar with, Arya froze. “I – “

He cut her off. “I told you that I won’t tolerate another lie, when we had the discussion about Maidenpool, remember?”

Arya shrank back in her chair, then nodded meekly. He had identified her lie even before she had had the chance to speak it out loud. Then, her breath caught in her throat – realizing the severity of his statement. Knowing that she could read also implied that he knew she had read his letters whenever she thought he wouldn’t see. How else should he have guessed? She hid her hands below the table where he wasn’t able to see the treacherous shake.

Lord Tywin studied her with a gaze that could cut steel in two, then poured himself another cup of wine. “Don’t take me for a fool. I’ve known that you’re able to read for a while. Sharp little thing, are you?”

It wasn’t meant as a question and Arya didn’t take it as one. For that she was grateful for it would have been impossible to keep the panic from her voice; her skin, glossed by cold sweat spoke volumes of it.

“Apparently so,” Lord Tywin brought the cup to his lips and drank. “Who taught you to read?”

There was no escape for Arya, no suitable lie to deny her ability to read, but still, pride and memory made her hesitate. The mere thought of her father in Tywin Lannister’s presence felt like a betrayal – to her house and her very own believes. She had once overheard her father say that he would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“My father,” she told him quietly, watching the way her fingers worked beneath the table.

“Your father,” Lord Tywin sipped his wine, watching Arya over the rim of the cup. “Is he still alive?”

Arya shook her head. “No, my lord.”

Her father’s words wouldn’t leave her. On any other occasion, she would have snorted upon the irony of it. There she was, sitting at the same table with the Lord of Casterly Rock as a low-born servant girl, holding the strangest of conversations. She wasn’t a ward, something that at least would guarantee her a certain safety – but their fates were strangely tied nevertheless.

From the yard below she could hear the sound of clashing of swords, knowing it was soldiers sparring to be prepared for Robb. It made her feel sick.

Her lord’s voice tore Arya out of her thoughts. “What got him killed?

_YOU!_

_Your monsters!_

She didn’t say that. Every lie she’d come up with would be easily deciphered. Drawing in a deep breath she dared what all of Tywin Lannister’s lords and bannerman had not; she looked him directly into the eye as she spoke. “Loyalty killed him.”

“Loyalty,” Lord Tywin mused. “Loyalty has sent many into an early grave, has – and will. You Northerners most of all.”

Insults never sat well with Arya. She tilted her head, looking at him before she washed down the initial anger with a mouthful of water. “You demand loyalty from your lords, don’t you? Liege lords and bannermen are supposed to be loyal to your house, your cause and war.”

House Reyne was eradicated for its disloyalty.

“In fact, I do. ” Lord Tywin ignored that perhaps her question wasn’t appropriate. “I do have the impression your father taught you more than to read.”

Thinking of everything else he had taught her made Arya’s face light up before she could think better of it. “He did.”

He’s been teaching Arya all her life, even when it had never occurred to her that it was a lesson in the first place.

“Who was he?”

“A .. A stonemason.” It was the best thing Arya could come up with.

Lord Tywin eyed her for a second as if to question her further on the subject of her father, then obviously decided against it. He rose from his seat, the golden cup still in hand. From there he walked towards the broken window, his boots clicking loudly on the floor. It almost seemed as if he had wished to avoid the question of her father in the first place.

_Does he suspect?_

Arya watched him standing there, with his hands folded behind his back as he sometimes did, catching herself wondering what he was thinking.

Something about his demeanor was strange; as if a plot had not unfolded the way he had thought it would. But – that didn’t make any sense at all. What could have been the original plan in the first place?

_There’s no plan, no greater scheme involved!_

Arya scolded herself.

Why would he waste his time thinking about a serving girl? 

“Every child has a favorite book. What was yours?”

The question was unexpected. Though confused by it she did not have to think twice about the answer. “The Conquest of the Dragons.”

Her lips curved into a smile. She remembered the book’s cover, leather red as dragon flame, greasy from her fingers and too many reads; she even remembered the smell of it, the sound of its flapping pages.

“The Conquest of Dragons,” Lord Tywin repeated, still gazing out of the window. “Quite a heavy tome but an interesting read. So you know what happened to this castle?”

“Dragons, my lord,” the spark of excitement in her voice was even audible to her own ears. “Dragons happened!”

_Aegon. Visenya. Rhaenys._

It made Lord Tywin turn around, regarding her across the distance.

He nodded and in his eyes he saw a sparkle. “Correct. Dragons happened.”

Arya was surprised when for the first time she heard something akin to a genuine interest in his voice. “A pity, truly. Once, there were a hundred forty-five halls, a castle truly befitting for kings. And what has become of it? A useless pile of rubble.”

She wrinkled her nose, realizing that all her nervousness has vanished. “A pile of rubble, perhaps. But it is not useless? It is still well suited to host and feed an entire army for weeks.”

Arya was shocked by her reply.

“Not untrue.”

She thought about the Targaryens riding their dragons. “Aegon rode Balerion but he wasn’t alone. It was Aegon _and_ his sisters. Rhaenys rode Meraxes and Visenya rode Vhagar.”

The way he regarded her spoke of kindness. “Indeed. A million men could have marched against Harrenhal’s walls, and a million men would have been repelled – “

In her excitement Arya interrupted. “Aegon and his sisters changed the rules.”

His voice was mild. “It sounds as if Aegon’s sisters are heroines of yours.”

They were. Arya was surprised that Lord Tywin allowed the insolence of interrupting slip. Yet even more surprising was how much she enjoyed the conversation about Harrenhal’s history. It was far more to her liking than the crude talk of men, and cocks, and whores she usually witnessed everywhere else.

_He’s my enemy._

_And I am his._

She stood as he walked towards his solar and disappeared inside of it, uncertain what she was supposed to do.

She heard the sound of footsteps followed by the rustles of paper but not a single word, so she simply remained where she was. If he wanted anything, he’d tell her, of that she had little doubt. Although she was curious about what he did she didn’t dare to peek inside. Spying was considered bad manners – not that it had ever stopped her before.

When he returned to the main room with a book in his hand Arya stood somewhere between the table and the wall. In the silence that for once wasn’t uncomfortable she squeezed her eyes together to figure out what kind of book it was.

Taking advantage of her diverted attention, Lord Tywin stepped into the empty space between.

Never before has Arya realized how much taller he was, looming over her without perhaps not even intending to. But then, never before have they stood like this, her personal space thoroughly invaded.

They weren’t supposed to stand like this at all in the first place, lord and servant, and she’d be a fool not to be intimated. Arya’s eyes fell on the hilt of his dagger, wrought from the finest gold, then on the blue leather of the book. From there, her gaze wandered along with the golden claps of his doublet up to his face. She had to crane her neck for it.

Arya’s sanity bade her run, but she did not run, not even back away. She stood her ground under his questioning gaze, half-curious of what would happen next, half-frightened for the very same reason. His presence coursed through her veins; being so close to the monster he was; close enough to inhale the smell of the leather; close enough to smell his wine-stained breath.

“Perhaps –“ Lord Tywin said, then paused as if to reconsider his choice of words and Arya wondered if her imagination was playing tricks on her when she saw golden speckles in his eyes. She dared a closer look, of the kind she’d never done before. It almost was as if a silent challenge lingered in her lord’s gaze.  “Ser Gregor is not exactly known for his love for books.”

No, he wasn’t.

Ser Gregor was known for his bloodlust.

“If they were written with blood, perhaps he would be,” Arya blurted out before she could think better of it.

Lord Tywin raised an eyebrow at her. “Does it bother you?”

It was time of war, she knew that.

Perhaps, he expected her to back down – she was almost certain he did from the way he regarded her.

“My lord, it’s –“ Arya considered to rephrase the sentence that lay on her tongue, then decided against it. Whatever she did, she perhaps would regret it sooner or later but that didn’t stop her, it never had. She forced her arms into stillness and didn’t allow her gaze to wander away from her lord’s face. “To kill smallfolk and peasants .. appears wrong to me.”

“War does seldom determine who is right; it determines who is left.”

In the glow of the fire, she caught a glimpse of his battle-worn face, the scars more pronounced than she’d seen them ever before. Perhaps, the flicker of anxiety across his face was imagination, perhaps it was not. Arya couldn’t tell for certain.

The sentence repeated itself in Arya’s mind. She didn’t know his exact age but guessed from everything she knew that it must be something around sixty years, an age often only reached by Maesters, especially in unruly times.

“You are left, my lord,” Arya said, looking directly at him

Her answer took Lord Tywin by surprise, just as herself.

“Indeed I am. Though many wished me an early grave, I still live, fighting a war my grandson’s idiocy has caused, sparked by rash decisions unthought of.” His voice trailed off, givbing her the book. “I cannot revive your childhood whilst reading The Conquest of Dragons –“

_My childhood ended the day my father’s head hit the ground._

“My childhood ended the day my father died,” Arya told him, then immediately corrected herself. “Pardon me, I shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Yes, yes, you should not,” Lord Tywin flickered his hand. His voice was firm but not unkind. “And yet it appears to me that you are quite enjoying it every once in a while.”

The leather felt soft against her trembling fingers and Arya traced the golden indentation of the title, looking down at the book, then back at him again.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, smiling openly at him.

She meant it, Arya realized. She meant it with all her heart.

Lord Tywin inclined his head. “Your service is dispensable for the hours to come. You know where to find a candle stump I take it?”

_Yes._

Arya felt herself smiling again.

Clutching the book to her chest, she made for the door and was gone.

* * *

 

  
[as gifset on tumblr](https://feanope.tumblr.com/post/189963203775/war-does-not-determine-who-is-right-only-who-is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dear readers, followers, subscribers, kudo-leavers & commenters: Thank you for sticking around and all your feedback - it means so much <3 I wish you all a good New Year's Eve & A HAPPY 2020! May 2020 be kind to you! See you next year**   
> 


	9. Chapter 9

 

**Chapter 09**

*

The Lannisters did not bestow charity upon anyone, didn’t give gifts – and yet Lord Tywin had gifted Arya the book.

Realization struck her when she finally was alone.

She lay on the dirty mattress, pressing her head against the wall. For a while she stared obstinately at the wall opposite of her, tracing the outlines of the bricks until her vision began to blur and the persisting question returned.

_Why?_

Her mind was sharp and usually, she did not struggle to draw conclusions, but her lord’s behavior left her startled. There was no sense to it.

_Why?_

Everything Lord Tywin did, served a purpose.

_Why? Why me, why not anyone?_

Although her father had been less strict with the servants in Winterfell than Lord Tywin,  certain things were hardly tolerated anywhere. Arya had been scolded being in the company of stable boys and kitchen maids all her life, never truly understanding why. To her, it made no difference.

_The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it all._

She remembered Syrio’s words about the exotic animal that only was a cat.

_Opening your eyes is all that is needed._

Arya grew frustrated. Opening her eyes was exactly what she did, day after day. She tried so hard, but in Harrenhal, she felt blind.

She wouldn’t find an answer to her question. Not now, perhaps never – or at least until it didn’t really matter. One day, the war would end and she could go home: to Robb, Sansa, mother, and all the stable boys she so dearly missed.

_To Winterfell._

The lit candle in her room was a poor substitute for the great hearth in Winterfell in front of which Arya loved to read. Not that she needed much light anyway – she had memorized the lines of the book by heart.

Arya began reading, inhaling the smell of old paper that so much smelled of home and in her mind, her father’s voice began reading the story to her. Her eyes fell shut and when she opened them again, she the letters meshed and merged into a giant mess of black and white.

_Father._

Tears stream down her face.

Arya got angry – at herself for foolishly accepting the gift and smiling at Lord Tywin, for crying like a child.

Then, her anger shifted towards Lord Tywin. She’d been tricked – she just still didn’t know the game. But then – wasn’t just everything a game? The Seven Kingdoms a giant board, where everyone was a figure to be played, the game itself sick and twisted? The glances she gave the wall were furious, and she wished she’d be able to cast them directly at Tywin Lannister, the one who pulled the strings of the wretched game.

_Why?_

            This time, the question was directed at herself. That she failed to answer only sparked her anger further.

_Why am I so naïve to allow myself to be fooled by him?_

She would never let her guard down in front of him again. Even as she thought it, she knew she would fail. For all of Tywin Lannister’s intimidating reputation, standing before him had not frightened her to the extend it should, a fact that still startled her.

It was wrong.

In a fit of temper, she balled her fists and hit the wall, wishing she had something to throw – but she would never throw a book nor a candle and that was all she’s got.

According to Arya that was a sin.

She had her principles.

_Don’t attract attention._

_Don’t let your guard down._

_Ever._

Today, she had failed both.

Arya threw her knife against the wall, imagining it hit Tywin Lannister right in the heart, just as she has been imagining a thousand times.

The effect it had was disappointing.

Hate did not burn as brightly as it once had. It startled her, it repulsed her, and it frustrated her all the more, and then, without the faintest of warnings Ser Amory Lorch’s words, long forgotten and deeply buried came back to her.

_Never understood what he found in you little Northern cunt in the first place!_

Suggestiveness was a nuisance. She was familiar with it; by now she was even familiar with suggestiveness being directed towards her, spared from physical harassment only by sheer coincidence.

_It isn’t that!_

She recalled what she had seen on Lord Tywin’s face today – some emotions had been rather unexpected, yes, but it hadn’t been that.  

_Bullshit._

What she remembered as well, was how very addicting it has become to catch glimpses into the labyrinth of his thoughts.

She wished she could go down to the yard and watch the soldiers spar, it was still early enough. The rhythm of clashing swords, the difference in movement and fighting style never failed to soothe her mind, even if it were Lannister men preparing for Robb. To Arya, the dance of swords was like poetry in motion.

Arya didn’t dare to leave her room, not after the incident.

Instead, she took up the wooden staff from the floor, smoothing her hands along its surface.  Everything that Syrio has ever taught her went racing through her head as she began to move – left, right – forward, backward, swirling about.

Before long sweat trickled down her forehead yet Arya kept dancing until her palms have gone numb from the iron grip around the wooden stick, until her thighs and feet burnt.

Power mattered – and the skill with weapons offered her power.

_Tywin Lannister._

_Joffrey_

_Cersei._

The name of her revenge prayer came in the rhythm of her strokes, and in the cadence of her own voice, Arya lost herself.

_Dunsen, Polliver, The Tickler._

_Meryn Trant._

She wished there were cats in Harrenhal; chasing rats in the cellars was only half as much fun. Her thoughts went down into the torchlit vaults of the Red Keep, towards the endless stairs; to the tomcat.

Dancing helped her to forget the racing thoughts she couldn’t keep up with; to ease the pain of all the losses she had to endure. Exhaustion blurred her vision and yet in the confines of her chamber, Arya danced the Braavosi dance of death until her legs forsake her.

Only then she finally found peace of mind and begun reading the book Lord Tywin gave her until sleep overwhelmed her long past midnight.

 

**** ****

 

The sky has long shed the world in darkness when Tywin sealed the last letter with molten wax.

He sank back into the chair by the fire of his solar, letting matters of state rest for a brief moment of idleness. The occasions on which he allowed such things were rare enough. There was no doubt that he would work through the night, just as he had done the night before together with his brother. In the ruins of Harrenhal fatigue has become a constant, so has lack of sleep – not that he had ever been famous for wasting precious hours with sleep.

Blurry shadows from the candles scattered on the ceiling, and despite the burning fire in the hearth, the room was cold, even to him.

Yes, he was tired and exhausted, and that perhaps was a sufficient explanation for why he felt the chill seeping into his bones. Apart from that, a strange calm has settled. It genuinely surprised Tywin that over the conversation with the girl his anger had completely dissipated.

_Damn her._

Nothing today had unfolded how he had planned it in his mind. Where he had thought that intimidation would finally win, she had stood her ground. Yes, she’d been nervous – but then, she only was a girl.

 _How old is she even?_ Tywin ignored the question, mostly for his peace of mind.

He had not intended to discuss subjects such as loyalty with the girl, nor the atrocities of war.

 _‘You are left, my lord.’_ The words lingered in Tywin’s mind. 

Before his Sire had tasted madness between his mistress's legs, he had taught Tywin well: _‘There is no other way to guard yourself against flattery than by making men understand that telling you the truth will not offend you.’_

            The girl had figured out within weeks what all the incompetent lackeys could not.

_How?_

Asking questions that have no true answer has always been a great part of Tywin, as was the study of the human mind – the advantages were countless. An equally great part was self-reflection; most people lacked exactly that. Tywin wasn’t guilty of having that blind spot.

_Except …_

He should send the girl away, but even as he thought it, he knew he could not – at least not as easily as he wished he could. She was nobody to him, and yet he had been swayed by the juvenile fire in her eyes when he had asked her about her favorite book.

Even now, it made him smile but before long the smile got a cruel edge to it.

_Perhaps, the way she behaved is a most fortunate coincidence._

The reputation of a man for a thousand years was decided in his actions in an hour – he had never planned nor anticipated to bestow kindness upon her and yet disturbingly enough, it served his original plan far more than anything else.

Tywin Lannister saw something in the girl he could neither grasp nor explain. There was a spark in her smile, matching the excitement in her eyes; it reminded him of the warm feeling he’d once been familiar with, oozing from his stomach onwards before everything had turned to ash.

Solitude and loneliness were hardly separated. But was it truly that? He’d turned his loneliness into armor long ago and wore it day after day with a stoic face, yet in her presence, he felts as if the allusion of solitude is finally unmasked.

He would dismiss it and move on, just as he always had.

So he told himself, drinking.

And yet there he sat, allowing his mind the pointless musings about the girl again, reflecting how he had crossed the line that separated lord and servant once more.

_It’ll never happen again._

_Yes. Yes._

Tywin drank.

Few had the streak in them to pursue their prey and lure them into the trap – that was him, yet Tywin felt as if today it had been the other way round. It was as if without even knowing it, the girl played at Tywin’s game, the one specifically designed for her.

Plots were never public knowledge and yet somehow it streaked him as if she suspected – at least parts of it.

She wouldn’t fool him; wouldn’t win the next round – he wouldn’t allow it. And yet the thought of intimidation lingered. So far he’d seen malicious thoughts and pure joy in her eyes; and still he wished to see all the rest. Gratitude and affection; further intimidation and fear. But most of all, he wished to see her smile again. The way her mouth had curved when she had spoken of the dragons that had put the castle into ash and ruins; the mirth that had shone from her eyes; the way she had boasted with her knowledge about Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen.

_How did she know about the dragons?_

_– And how had her father come into the possession of The Conquest of Dragons in the first place?_

The arguments in Tywin’s mind were circular and repetitive, just as a philosophical work discussing the subjugation of minds, philosophical questions to which he already suspected the answer to. Tywin’s musings about the girl were entirely pointless. He set his original plans aside like an empty cup, willing to ignore his suspicions for a little longer. Infamous were those who were afraid of their own thoughts and the thoughts behind their thoughts. (*)

From there he allowed his mind to wander to fresh meads of emerald grass and yellow flowers; of how Lady Joanna had used to smile for him when they were alone, her freckles matching the sparkling of her eyes. They had loved to wander the beaches below Casterly Rock with waves pooling around their bare feet. They’d been happy then – until all happiness had drowned the day his wife had bid the world goodbye.

Within a heartbeat, Tywin’s memories turned into poison.

He pinched the skin next to his nails hard enough to draw blood in futile hopes to divert the pain of his wife’s loss. It didn’t help, it never did, not in all thirty years, and over the cause of it anger arouse anew. Of words never said when there still had been time; of ill-made decisions. Of hate for his son who had killed his beloved wife.

In a rare fit of temper, Tywin threw the golden cup against the wall, which only fueled his anger further. Such temperament was entirely ill-befitting for any lord, the Head of House Lannister most of all. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) variation of Nietzsche’s “Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking, reading and going on this rare pair journey with me. Kudos and comments are thoroughly loved <3


End file.
